


Talk to Me

by sarangx



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Slow Updates, ending is in progress but it is happy lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-23 17:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarangx/pseuds/sarangx
Summary: From sharing a wall to sharing their deepest secrets and worries, Jisung and Minho find themselves bonding over food and seeking comfort in Minho’s honey cheesecake and each other’s words.[09.16.2020 removed woojin]





	1. Peppermint and Honey

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT #116: Person A is a stress baker. Person B is a stress eater. They live next door and they find out that this arrangement benefits them both. Cue lots of sharing and venting to one another about the issues that stress them out.
> 
> Before we begin, let me give you some information:  
-The title is from Cavetown's song "Talk to Me" - I recommend it!  
-This is unfinished pretty much. I tried to leave it on a good note so that I could submit in time for the ficfest, but it's by no means done. I still have so much planned, and I'll probably pick this fic up again and continue it after the ficfest is done.  
-This is rated T for cussing and mental health issues. If you get triggered or uncomfortable by anxiety, please be aware that is a theme of the fic. Proceed wisely and focus on your health.  
-I cannot cook or bake. I do not claim to cook or bake. This is literally just me winging it, so if there's a mistake regarding baking, don't worry about it. That's on me because I'm gay and a disaster in the kitchen.  
-This is pretty dialogue-heavy. If you don't like a lot of dialogue, you might not like this. I like to think I'm pretty good at it, though, so maybe this will be an exception? ;)  
-I was running short on time near the last half of Chapter 2, so if it feels rushed, I'm really sorry. I've been busy with school and had to make time to write so I could submit this in time for the ficfest.  
-I made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/cheetotwirl/playlist/01kIx2tFWCrR7OoCBtpTyx?si=xn_rotgdTiSi1Y95LHjbAw) for the fic if you'd like to listen while you read.  
-I have no idea how it got this long. It's not even done yet. What the fuck is happening?
> 
> And with that, happy reading, and enjoy the ficfest!

The day, as it was, has been coming out to be a shitshow. A full-on, no intermission, shitshow, and Minho’s lucky enough to have a front row seat.

It starts well enough; just the usual screaming alarm set too loud—as Changbin always likes to say, since it’s not his alarm but he still has to face its wrath—and the fumble to turn the damn thing off. As always, it takes Minho approximately two minutes through his sleep-hazed mind.

Changbin, with his eyes still closed, manages to throw a balled sock at Minho’s head while he’s getting up. The blow causes him to trip over a textbook, promptly sending his face into the hardwood floor with an uncanny smack that would undoubtedly garner him complaints from his neighbors. It’s fine, though, because he and the RA Bang Chan are on a first name basis now. He tells himself that’s a good thing.

“You alright?” Changbin mumbles, rubbing at his eyes as he watches Minho suffer from under the blankets because he’s a traitor like that. Minho vaguely looks like a worm after a rainshower, moping on the floor and asking for death.

“Fucking fantastic. Thanks, Bin,” he replies, nursing his aching head, only able to cast a weak glare at the boy who has caused him such misfortune. The boy in question only turns over to sleep again.

And from then on, it just gets worse.

The café he regularly visits in the morning has a long line that takes him double the time it usually does. The barista that’s working isn’t even Hyunjin, Minho’s friend, and the dumb girl in his place somehow messes up his order of an Iced Americano. It’s too creamy, and the consistency isn’t quite right, but Minho doesn’t have time to order a new one because holy shit, his morning lecture starts in five minutes and the class is on the other side of campus—a ten minute walk that he usually takes as leisure time. He curses JYPU for having such a large campus with so many buildings.

Minho, after downing his shit drink that tastes of dirt, inhales deeply, mentally prepares himself, and breaks into a sprint.

His backpack thumps against his back the whole time, heavy with textbooks and notebooks, but the adrenaline is enough for him to barely feel the weight. It’s only after he stumbles to a stop outside the psychology building that he winces.

“Hey, Minho, you look like shit.”

He looks up from the ground to see Sungjun, a classmate that’s only a year older. Despite the small age gap, though, Minho still likes to tease him for being an old man. It seems karma has finally reached him.

“Thanks, hyung,” Minho says with a grunt as he straightens his posture. “I feel like I’m gonna collapse. Or cry. Maybe both.” He pauses, thinking. “Probably both.”

“You look like it, too,” Sungjun agrees with a nod, indifferent to the other’s words. It feels like everyone is against him today. “Come on, then. Class is gonna start, but you know how late Professor Moon is to morning lectures.”

Fuck, that’s right.

“Shit, did I just sprint all the way here for nothing then?” Minho looks like he might burst into tears. Sungjun looks only mildly inconvenienced.

“Yeah, pretty much,” the older says with a shrug.

Before Minho can have a proper mental breakdown, Sungjun pulls him through the doors and into the building. They go down the left hallway and quietly open a door labeled ‘Sociology II’ and just manage to avoid the creaking of the hinges.

A few students turn to look curiously, but seeing it’s only Minho and Sungjun, they return their attention to the front of the auditorium where Professor Moon is entering. Just in time, it seems. Maybe the run over hadn’t been for nothing after all.

The professor doesn’t appear to see the pair, whether it be because he’s also not as sharp in the morning or because Minho and Sungjun are just that stealthy. When Minho trips over the third foot on his way to a seat, it’s clear what the answer is.

Class then goes smoothly for probably three minutes before Minho realizes something awful. Something he really shouldn’t have forgotten about because it’s life-or-death if he does. It’s too precious, too pure, and shit he’s really in trouble this time, isn’t he?

“I can see the tears starting already. What’s up?” Sungjun asks, because of course he wouldn’t know of this unbelievable detrimental thing like the fool he is.

“I left the cake out, hyung. Oh my god, I left the cake out.” Minho has his head in his hands, too busy grieving the loss of a moist, edible cake to notice the droning of the professor.

“What? What cake? Minho-”

“_ The _ cake, hyung!” Minho practically sobs, and it raises enough concern for a few classmates to look over, intrigued and slightly worried. “It’s a brand new recipe! Vanilla Crème Brûlée Cake! The whole shebang, you know? I had to use a blow torch and everything! And now it’s gonna be cold and hard and gross.” He sinks into his chair, defeated. “I’m a failure.”

Once the few classmates see it’s just another college breakdown, they turn back to taking notes. Sungjun still looks a bit miffed and confused.

“Christ, Minho, just pay attention to the lesson and worry about your brûlée cake or whatever later.”

But Sungjun doesn’t understand. That damn cake took two and a half hours to make, to perfect and to refine. He’d been careful not to set off the smoke alarm again, and also not to burn the white chocolate. He’d made three full batches of pistachio macarons at the same time, alternating between recipes to keep back the thoughts swirling around his head, threatening to cause his chest to combust and his legs to buckle from the weight of it all. The aroma of vanilla and pistachio paste had been enough for his heartbeat to calm and for his head to clear, but now there’s nothing to show for it. His hard work had been for naught; just a sad, crumbly thing of a cake that would be thrown in the trash.

Minho is unresponsive for the rest of the class, entirely devastated more than he’s willing to admit. He doesn’t answer any of Sungjun's questions or reply to any of his dry remarks. He chooses not to acknowledge the sincere concern in his hyung’s eyes as he shoots up to leave the room the instant Professor Moon calls dismissal.

Sure, Minho is dramatic. That’s just a renowned fact. But under all the theatrics, he’s truly stressed and really at his wit’s end. His head is full of the heavy thoughts again, of the words that feel like sandbags upon his shoulders, but there’s no smell of sugar to block it out now. He needs to get to his dorm, needs to bake and bake and bake until his head has been cleared.

He’s somehow able to get to his dorm, the journey across campus a blur. The memory of the hectic morning does nothing to ease his growing anxiety. He barely registers Changbin’s voice when he asks him what’s wrong.

Minho tries to gather his thoughts enough to answer, but before he can, his phone vibrates from across the room on the island countertop by the kitchenette. He hadn’t realized he’d forgotten it.

“Oh, yeah. Your phone’s been ringing for like half an hour now, hyung. I dunno who it is,” Changbin says with a shrug. He then checks his own phone. “Ah, I have to go. Good luck with whoever is calling you, hyung.”

He quickly slips through the front door and past Minho, not realizing how pale he’s gone. He walks over, and his hands shake as he reaches for his phone.

_ Missed Calls: _

_ Mother (21) _

Shit. Shit, shit, _ shit _. Why did she have to call today of all days? Minho thinks he’s about to collapse—and not from running across campus this time. He can feel his heart starting to beat faster as he slides the phone icon to answer Mother’s incoming call.

“Lee Minho!” Her voice is shrill, piercing through the speaker like needles. She’s pissed. “You know you have to call me every Tuesday, don’t you? We agreed on that long before you enrolled to JYPU. And yet there was not a single sound from you yesterday.”

Minho’s blood stutters to a stop and turns to ice. He’s shaking more now, and he feels like his heart is in his throat. Fuck, how did he forget?

“Oh, I-I’m sorry, Mother,” he murmurs. “I really-”

“What did we say about stuttering, Minho?” Her voice is cold, colder than his bloodstream now and he feels like he might as well had just murdered a man.

“No-” he pauses, trying to stop the stutter he knows is coming, “no stuttering. It’s important to be clear.”

“Right. Now, tell me what could’ve been more important than giving your old mother a call?”

The three two-hour classes he has every Tuesday, maybe? Or the double shift he took at the corner store to cover for Changbin, perhaps? Not to mention the work for other classes he’d still had to finish plus the three hours baking.

Part of him wants to tell her he’s a big boy now and that he’s busy and that he’s allowed to be. The other part of him—which is admittedly bigger—is too scared of her to really try and save himself when he knows she’ll have no mercy no matter what comes out of his mouth.

“I was just. . .” He bites his lip to stifle a stutter. “I had a lot to do and it slipped my mind. I’m really sorry, Mother. It won’t happen again.”

“No matter,” she says with a heavy sigh, like he’s the one burdening her. He probably is; always has and always will. “I’m cutting off the funds I’m sending you every week. I’ve tried to be supportive, you know, but it seems like you’re not giving back. You’ve always been a selfish child, though, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Minho’s heart squeezes then, and he has to hold his eyes tight to fight against the tears that are building. She’s never been supportive of his major choice, and she’s bullshitting the reason for cutting off the funds because he knows she’d been lowering the money for months now. It was only a matter of time before she’d be sending nothing.

He just feels so tired.

“Anyway, I’ll be off now. Remember to call, Minho.”

The line cuts off, and Minho is left staring at a lockscreen of red velvet cupcakes.

Despite the exhaustion in his bones and the ache at the forefront of his skull, the need to bake only grows. The familiar itch to grab his binder of collected recipes to wash away his stressors becomes overwhelming, and sure enough, he just leaves his phone on the countertop to look for a good cupcake recipe, trying to ignore the niggling thoughts regarding his insecurities.

  
  
  


** _You don’t have to be a hero to save the world._ **

** _It doesn’t make you a narcissist to love yourself._ **

** _It feels like nothing is easy; it’ll never be._ **

  
  
  


Jisung is up again. He doesn’t bother checking the time because he knows it’ll say it’s ass o’clock in the morning, and he really doesn’t need another reminder of how unhealthy his lifestyle is.

He sighs, turning over in his bed to face the wall opposite him. It’s unbearably blank: just off-white plaster glaring back at him. It’s so unlike Felix’s walls that are covered in posters of famous dancers and choreographers. Hung up by his bed, he even has polaroids of him, Jisung, and other friends.

All Jisung’s room has is a 2018 calendar and fairy lights that blew out a few months ago. Other than that, his walls remain bare. It’s a bit sad and kind of dreary. Felix has said that it doesn’t represent Jisung at all, and that it should be brighter and warmer to match his personality.

Jisung smiles a little bitterly at the memory. He wishes he could agree with Felix, but Jisung has never felt warm once in his life. Well, maybe when he was younger, but those days have long since passed and he’s matured much faster since then. Everything looks a little more grey, and he supposes his room matches him in that respect at least.

He heaves another sigh for the nth time that night, finally giving up on sleep. He sits up on the edge of the bed, letting his feet touch the ground. There’s a pang of hunger in his chest, and he could really go for something sweet right now to combat his not-so-sweet thoughts. He snorts at the irony.

He usually gets hungry in the early hours of the morning like this, and always for something packed with sugar. It’s been like that for as long as he can remember, and he used to have a stash back home that was just meant for these situations. But now he’s a broke college student and he has to rely on others—namely Felix and Seungmin—for small luxuries such as snacks.

Jisung huffs to himself, pouting a little. It’s at least worth a try to search the cupboards for food.

He slowly gets up, stretching his back as he does. There are a few satisfying pops before he quietly walks out of his room, careful to not wake Felix. The boy can occasionally be a light sleeper.

Their kitchen is barely a kitchen; it’s just an island countertop with another counter behind it against the wall, cupboards lining above it. Some rooms have microwaves, but theirs doesn’t, so they have to go to the end of the hall where the student lounge is to heat up food. It’s a pain in the ass, but they can’t do anything about it except suffer.

Although there’s a small mini-fridge in their room, there’s usually only water bottles and banana milk inside it. Felix’s mom likes to send snacks from Australia, and since they have to be mailed across the world, they don’t need to be refrigerated. Jisung’s dad doesn’t send anything, so he’s out of the question anyway.

Most of the time, they depend on Seungmin for actual meals. Felix and Jisung can’t cook for shit, and the RA has told them to stop trying to cook with the half-broken oven in their room. That leaves Seungmin, another first year who actually has decent kitchen skills. He only lives across the hall, but he’s apart of the debate club and is always busy with schoolwork. He’s also very likely asleep at this time in the morning.

Jisung frowns when he only sees some ramen in the cupboards. Honestly, he’d eat it if they had a damn microwave in their room.

He grumbles to himself in frustration, and is about to just steal one of Felix’s banana milks and accept the absolute fury the Australian will rain down upon him later. But then Jisung catches a whiff of something sweet.

He squints, looking around. It’s definitely something sugary, and it vaguely smells like honey. He leaves the kitchen to investigate, trying to find the source. It’s harder than he thought to follow a smell, but he tries his best and finds himself walking towards the front door. It has to be from another room, then, and very close.

Carefully, he opens the door and looks out into the hallway. It’s completely dark, and there’s nothing to show that anybody else is awake. At this point, he feels like he’s gone crazy and that he’s projecting onto reality, because what are the odds? He’s about to condemn himself to going hungry tonight, but then he hears a soft curse from the room next to his.

He looks over, and after placing a doorstop so he won’t get locked out for the fifth time this year, he goes up to the door.

The smell is stronger—it definitely has to be coming from this room. Jisung is hungry, tired, and a little depressed, so without much thought, he knocks.

_ Wait, what did I just do? _ Jisung’s eyes widen at his own actions, and fucking hell, did he _ really _ just do that? At ass o’clock in the morning? On a stranger’s door?

There’s some kind of fumbling from inside, a few more curses, before the door opens a bit to reveal—

Oh. Oh, shit. Oh, _ fuck _. It’s the whole damn reason Jisung likes boys!

The stranger is, for a lack of better words, _ fucking hot _. He’s a bit taller than Jisung, and he has a leaner build. His hair is a pretty shade of purple—somewhere between periwinkle and an ashy pastel, and it’s understandably messy as some strands fall over his forehead and into his eyes. Which, okay, his eyes are somehow sparkling in the dim light of his room, and his long eyelashes manage to frame them perfectly. Jisung finds it more than a little infuriating how unbelievably beautiful this man is so early in the morning. And it doesn’t help that he’s just wearing an oversized graphic tee that hangs over his shorts.

Jisung feels far more inferior in his big yellow hoodie and sweatpants.

“Uh, hi?” The stranger seems confused, and yeah, Jisung would be, too if he was in that situation.

“Hi,” Jisung says awkwardly, fiddling with the earring that dangles from his ear. What is he supposed to say?

“Can I help you?” The boy looks at his phone before back at Jisung. “At three-thirty in the morning?”

Oh, so it’s three-thirty. Lovely. Jisung’s sure to have a blast during his class in six hours.

“Yeah, okay, so sorry about just, y’know,” he gestures wildly, “all this. But I’m like, really hungry. And I can smell some good shit from your room. So I was wondering if. . .I dunno, you could spare me some food? Or something? Or not.”

Jisung, and he can say this with his whole heart, wants to die. He sounds like a scavenger on the streets. He can’t believe he’s doing this. _ At three-thirty in the goddamn morning. _

Pretty Boy—Jisung finds the name to be almost too fitting—stares at him, expression unreadable. Jisung fidgets a bit before the boy gives a small, possibly amused smile and shrugs, opening the door wider.

“Sure. Come on in, then.”

“Wait, really?” Jisung looks from the door to Pretty Boy, hesitant. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Pretty Boy says, walking into the room. Jisung follows him, still a bit uncertain and very surprised. “I need a second opinion on this recipe anyway.”

The kitchen is pretty much just a kitchenette like Jisung’s own room, but they have a microwave and a working oven. He’s only a little jealous because he knows he’d inevitably break both eventually. They both seem to be in good hands, too, if the four batches of cupcakes and glass cases of other desserts are evidence enough.

Jisung is both extremely impressed and a little concerned; he’s only ever seen so many desserts in bakeries. There’s mountains of macarons and growing racks of cupcakes, and he can see a few glass domes homing different types of cakes.

“Don’t you have like, a roommate?” Jisung asks, wondering how this guy can bake so much so early in the morning without waking someone up.

“Oh, yeah,” Pretty Boy says with a little laugh, and though it was just a shy chuckle, Jisung finds it more than endearing. “He’s a lyric composition major, so he’s usually holed up in one of the school studios. He only sleeps here on Tuesdays.”

“Oh! I’m a lyric composition major, too!” Jisung’s eyes light up, and he sees Pretty Boy’s smile grow bigger. “What’s his name? And yours? I’m Han Jisung!” He’s now more energetic, the thought of his major easily exciting him. He can’t help it, though—he’s so passionate about writing lyrics that it can become overwhelming sometimes.

“His name’s Seo Changbin, and I’m Lee Minho.” With a twinkle in his eye, Minho adds, “And it’s nice to meet you, Jisung. Are you a first year?”

“Yes!”

“Then I’m your hyung,” he says with a mischievous grin. “I only have one other dongsaeng, so be prepared, Jisung-ah.”

“For what?” Jisung asks with a laugh. He’s a little confused, but Minho still looks very pretty, especially when he smiles like that.

“For taste testing all my recipes!” Minho exclaims, eyes shining as he pushes a rack of what looks like vanilla cupcakes towards Jisung. “You’re doomed now. You don’t know what you just got yourself into.”

_ I really don’t _, Jisung thinks to himself, but finds himself giggling anyway. Maybe he should feel a little more puzzled and uncomfortable—after all, he doesn’t know Minho that well and he’s already in the boy’s dorm. But there’s something about him that feels warm and welcoming, and like Jisung doesn’t have to try and act like someone else first. He hasn’t met someone like Minho in a very long time, so it’s really refreshing.

“Well, I think we should start the taste test with this one,” Jisung says, pointing at the cupcakes. “Tell me, Chef Minho hyung, what is the flavor of this delicacy?”

“That is our famed Lavender Cupcake!” Minho starts with a flourish, causing Jisung to begin giggling again. “It looks like a normal vanilla cupcake, but do not be fooled! The buttercream icing is infused with the purest of lavender, transported all the way from France!”

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Jisung calls out, smirking as Minho falters with a pout.

Jisung sits on a stool by the island countertop and carefully chooses one of the pristine cupcakes. They’re all in silver-colored liners, and the shine of them complements the beige of the cake and the pale purple of the frosting. Jisung finds it to be a masterpiece, and if he wasn’t so hungry, he would’ve looked at it longer. Instead, he peels off the liner and takes a bite, accidentally getting some of the icing on his nose.

“So what do you think?” Minho asks, slightly bouncing on his feet as he watches Jisung expectantly.

“I think. . .” Jisung pauses, pretending to consider it deeply when he feels like he just bit into possibly the best thing on this earth. “It’s amazing, hyung! It’s so good!” He beams at Minho, eyes closing a little from the force of his smile.

“Oh, shit, really?” the older says excitedly, smiling. “It’s a new recipe, so I wasn’t sure. Sometimes they end up tasting like rotten kimchi or some failed vegan dish.”

“Cupcakes do? Are you serious?”

Minho looks at him blankly before shaking his head with shit-eating grin.

“Oh my god, you’re awful.” Jisung’s scowl turns into a pout as he glares at the boy. “I could literally deck you right here and now just for that.”

“Nah, it probably wouldn’t look that great when you have icing on your nose,” Minho says pointedly, still smirking a bit. “It’s cute, though. If this was a rom-com, I’d totally lick it off for you. Do you want me to?”

“Fuck off, hyung,” Jisung groans with a playful smile as he tries to ignore how he’s blushing, leaning away as Minho takes a step towards him. “Take me out to dinner first,” he adds, looking scandalized.

“You literally just ate a cupcake I made from scratch. What more do you need?”

“Hm, well,” Jisung starts counting on his fingers, “I need a five-star restaurant with a view overlooking all of Seoul, these cupcakes for life, all hundreds in my classes, clear skin, the ability to stop time, two dogs, a cure for insomnia, and my mother. Oh! And a microwave in my dorm.”

“I can maybe do two of those things.” Minho’s still smiling, but it’s tighter now, like he picked up on the undertones of what Jisung said.

A moment of silence passes, all too awkward as Jisung wonders if maybe he’s gotten too comfortable far too early. He picks at his nails, and he barely feels the sting of a hangnail through his growing anxiety as the silence stretches on longer than he first thought it would.

“Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I have trouble sleeping, too. Like, always. That’s why I’m baking at fucking four in the morning.”

Jisung looks up, dumbfounded. It isn’t so much what Minho says that surprises him, but the fact he said it at all and with such a self-deprecating tone. It doesn’t fit him, and neither does the sad little smile on his face.

“It’s okay, hyung,” Jisung says, giving him an encouraging but unsure smile. “We can like, hang out then, right? I’ll eat your food and you can make it for me to eat.”

Minho’s eyes shine despite the dim lighting. His small smile brightens, and his whole body seems to light up at Jisung’s suggestion. The brunet tries very hard to calm his queer heart.

“That’s a great idea, Sung-ah!” Minho beams, and the nickname causes Jisung to freeze. It reminds him of sunny days, bright colors, toothy grins, and kind eyes—of the mother he wishes he could see just one more time. “Oh, wait, can I call you that? Sorry, I should’ve asked first.”

Usually, Jisung would give a firm no through tight lips. He’d give a forced smile maybe, with an alternative to just call him Ji. But strangely, he doesn’t feel the same crushing weight he’s felt in the past when people have mistakenly called him by the same nickname.

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” he mumbles, not even sure if Minho hears it.

He does, though, and he seems to notice the switch in mood because he asks, “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure, I guess,” Jisung says, a little confused by the offer. “What kind do you have?”

“Uh, about that. . .” Minho laughs nervously as he turns to open one of the cupboards, revealing only three packets of tea. “I only have peppermint. And it might be two years old.”

“Why’d you even ask then?” Jisung snorts before chuckling a bit. He watches Minho struggle to tear into the packets, amused and not about to help.

“Because!” the older exclaims, huffing. “You suddenly looked sad! And tea is like, a universal de-sadding thing, right? Right,” he nods to himself. “So I wanted to make you some tea. But then I remembered I just have some shitty old tea here, and that it’s not at all some fancy thing like chamomile or- or jasmine or whatever.”

“Don’t you bake, hyung? Shouldn’t you know chamomile and jasmine aren’t fancy?”

“Do you want the tea or not?”

“Yes, fine!” Jisung gives in with a small smile, content to just sit and watch Minho mumble the instructions on the packet to himself. “Have you never made tea before, hyung?”

“Leave me alone, asshole, I’m reading.”

“Strong words from an illiterate.”

“Literally fuck off,” Minho says with a groan, giving Jisung the middle finger, “you gremlin.”

“_ Gremlin _? I’m not a gremlin, you gremlin!”

“Okay, well, that’s gremlin hyung to you, young man.” Minho grabs a couple of mugs from the cupboards and pours water into them. He sets them in the microwave for two minutes. “And this gremlin hyung is kind enough to make you some tea.”

Jisung squints at him for a moment before he smirks again. “Ah, yes, a fine two-year-old delight, I see! Tea that’s aged as fine wine! Scrumptious, gremlin hyung, really.”

“Who the hell uses ‘scrumptious’ anymore? Did they ever?”

“I do,” Jisung replies confidently, smiling wide. “And I’ll continue to bless you with my ever-growing vocabulary. . .if you give me your number.”

“Damn, nice one, Sung-ah,” Minho says, looking away from the microwave to smirk at the brunet with a quirked eyebrow. “That was really smooth and totally unnecessary. You could’ve just asked.”

“Why can’t you let me live just once, hyung?” Jisung grumbles, pouting as he leans on his arms. “I’ve known you for, like, fifteen minutes and you’ve been so mean to me this whole time.”

Minho laughs then, still looking at Jisung, but his eyes have softened. His smile is tilted, teasing. Jisung’s heart beats rapidly in his chest. How does Minho affect him like this so easily? It must be the exhaustion.

“First of all, I let you in,” the older says with a hand on his hip. “And I gave you a cupcake for free! Are you forgetting the cupcake? Was it really that forgettable?”

“Hey, no, watch this.” Jisung picks up the rest of the cupcake—there’s only half of it left—and proceeds to shove it into his mouth. He looks at Minho pointedly as he chews, raising his hands for emphasis. “There’s no cupcake, hyung,” he mumbles, round cheeks full with food.

Minho stares at him, expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“You. . .” he pauses, “. . .are ridiculous.”

“Fuck—” Jisung’s swear is cut off by the beeping of the microwave. Minho’s quick enough to shut it off after the second ring, looking mildly panicked.

“I can’t have Chan hyung yell at me for using the microwave before dawn again, Sung-ah,” he says, and Jisung isn’t quite sure if the fear in his voice is real or not. “I just can’t. You should've told me the water was gonna be ready instead of choking on a cupcake.”

“Well, shit, hyung, I’ll be sure to use my psychic powers next time.”

Minho doesn’t say anything else, only giving Jisung the second middle finger that morning. The brunet just laughs at him as he opens the tea packets and dips each teabag into the hot water of each mug. He pushes one of them towards Jisung.

“Hey, hyung?” Jisung suddenly pipes up after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“I smelled honey earlier. Were you making something with it?”

“Oh! Right.” Minho turns around to walk over to the oven. Despite it being off, he opens it and pulls out a stone tray with a cake on it.

It’s not that big—it’s shorter than some of the other cakes Minho has on display. It has a minimalistic sort of beauty, though, as it's mainly white except for the thin top layer that’s colored yellow with a honeycomb pattern pressed into it. Honey fills in the pentagons of the honeycomb, and it drips over the sides of the cake.

“It’s my Honey Cheesecake. I like to make it when I’m having a more stressful day,” Minho explains with an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t have anymore space in the fridge, so I had to leave it in the oven.”

“That’s, like, the prettiest cake I’ve ever seen,” Jisung says with wide eyes. He stares at the cheesecake in awe. “And it’s cheesecake? Hyung, I _ love _ cheesecake! I have to taste it! Please?”

“Well, it’s not a new recipe, so I’m not sure,” Minho says, making a show of thinking to himself, but he’s already putting the cake down in front of Jisung. “I guess for once I’ll let it slide, though. I’m giving a cute boy my number, after all.”

Jisung sputters a bit, cheeks burning at Minho’s words. He tries to scoff, but it sounds more like he’s choking.

“I-I— but- I’m-” he stutters in an attempt to fire back some sort of witty remark, but in the end, all he can do is mutter a quiet, “Asshole.”

Minho grins, obviously pleased with Jisung’s reaction. He then takes a knife and makes two careful cuts in the cake, slipping the knife under the slice to pull it out and onto a plate. Jisung watches in fascination as he does so, his movements well-practiced.

The inside of the cake is almost the same as the outside, but there are two golden half-circles facing down in the bottom layer. Jisung’s eyes light up with interest when he sees them.

“What are those orange thingies?”

“The what?” Minho blinks confusedly for a moment before he looks at the cake. Recognition flashes across his face when he sees what Jisung is talking about. “Oh! Those are just balls of honey and water.”

“That’s weird,” the brunet comments without much thought, still looking over the cake curiously. He eventually takes the fork Minho gives him to stab into it. He scrutinizes it for a moment, squinting, before popping it in his mouth with a soft _ nom _ sound.

Minho giggles slightly, but bites his lip to stifle the sound. He watches Jisung closely as he chews, the brunet’s cheeks once again full with food.

“Yo, hyung,” he says after swallowing, “this is, like, amazing. Like, revolutionary, y’know? You could stop wars with this. Wait! Shit, call the president, military training is no more!”

“It’s not _ that _good, Sung-ah, calm down,” Minho protests with a laugh, lightly smacking Jisung upside the head as he smiles a little shyly. Jisung idly wonders why he hadn’t acted like that with the cupcakes.

“But it is, hyung!” he insists, pouting. “It’s really, really good! Can I eat all this? I can totally do it in one sitting. Give me one hour! Bet!”

“No, Sungie,” Minho says with a small smile. He looks at Jisung a bit fondly, and that along with the nickname makes his heart flip. “There’s a shit ton of sugar in this, and it’s already four in the morning. You should probably go and try to sleep after you finish your tea.”

Jisung knows Minho’s right, but he can’t help but want to stay. Not only does this very pretty boy have a bunch of sweets he’s made himself, but his entire presence is just so warm. Jisung doesn’t know how to explain it, but Minho, despite knowing him for less than an hour, feels like a longtime friend he hasn’t seen in a while. There’s a sense of familiarity and warmth, and god, Jisung hasn’t felt that in so long. His fingers itch to pick up a pen to write paragraphs over paragraphs about Minho to try and get a grasp on his emotions.

“You still owe me your number, though,” Jisung points out, his words slightly muffled through the mouthful of cheesecake he’s eating again.

“Do you even have your phone on you?”

“Um. . .” Jisung leans away from the countertop to pat down his pockets, “. . .no.”

Minho snorts and shakes his head with mirth in his eyes. He picks up his phone from the counter and taps the screen a few times before sliding it over to Jisung.

“Give _ me _your number then, cutie,” he says with a smirk.

Jisung almost starts choking for the third fucking time in one hour. He might just die.

“God, I’m only nineteen, you can’t send me into cardiac arrest like that, hyung,” he mumbles as he types his number into a contact, almost not wanting Minho to hear it. The boy’s laughter is proof that he very much did.

_ Contact Name: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

Jisung nods to himself, content with the name. He pushes the phone back over to Minho before taking a sip of tea. It’s warm and comforting, and the peppermint is subtle enough to complement the lasting taste of honey on his palate.

“‘Cutie Sungie’, huh?” Minho teases, because of course the bastard would. “With a little heart, too? Fitting.”

“I’m taking your age-old tea and leaving, hyung,” Jisung says, standing up and shoving the rest of the cheesecake slice into his mouth as he holds the mug of tea in his other hand. “Fuck you and goodnight.”

Minho walks him to the front door, laughing at him the whole way. “Sleep well, Cutie Sungie,” he says smugly as he leans against the doorframe.

Jisung just flicks him off before he enters his own dorm room and shuts the door behind him. The doorstop skitters to a halt a few meters away.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe that happened,” Jisung whispers to himself after a few minutes pass of him processing what in the hell just went on.

He was hungry, then smelled something sweet, then followed it to a complete stranger’s dorm, then was let in by the beautiful boy living there. And was then fed delicious food while making banter with that same beautiful boy. And he hadn’t felt as anxious as he usually would with strangers. He felt. . .welcomed. And warm.

Jisung covers his face with his hands as he groans quietly. He really doesn’t understand what the fuck is going on. He must be dreaming or something. Or hallucinating. He needs to sleep.

But even after he’s covered in blankets and the room is only lit up by a small lamp on his bedside table, he can still see the stars in Minho’s eyes and can taste the peppermint and honey on his tongue.

  
  


** _That’s alright, let it out, talk to me._ **   
  
  



	2. Hazelnut and Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worries and anxiety mount as the two are apart. Who knew anxiety could be this shitty?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really long. like, really really long. like, 17k words long.  
also! tw for a panic attack and an anxiety attack! stay safe~ xx

Minho looks up at Mama, a pout on his lips. His cheeks still have baby fat, and they puff out as he exhales exaggeratedly. There’s a whine building in his throat, as he’s tired of how Mama has been stuck to her phone this whole time. They have very important things to do!

“Mama, you said you’d teach me how to make cookies today!” he complains petulantly, his little fists balled up on either side of him.

Mama sighs through her nose, closing her eyes with the exhale. When she opens them, she starts rubbing her temples. She says something to the phone that Minho can’t catch, but her knit eyebrows tell him it’s nothing good.

“Minho, sweetie,” she starts, pulling the phone away to look at him, “Mama’s busy right now, okay? We can make those cookies or whatever another time.” Her voice is placating, just toeing the line of condescending.

“But you said that last time! And the day before! And the week before! And-”

“Lord, just-” she huffs again, frustrated. She says something to the phone again, rolling her eyes as she does. She presses something on the screen and puts it down, her shoulders hunched.

“Mama? Are we gonna make the cookies now?” Minho asks excitedly. clapping his hands together. He beams up at her even though he can’t see her face.

“No, we’re not going to make any damn cookies!” She whips around, her eyes glaring at him so fiercely he flinches, his eyes widening and smile falling. “You and your fucking cookies are giving me a headache! Your stupid fucking whining and your screaming—god, do you ever _ shut the fuck up _?”

Minho’s staring at her, cowering away as she shouts more bad words at him. His gaze drops to the floor as she steps closer, and he tries not to think about how his heart is racing. His hands shake as he pulls them towards himself, hugging his torso to try and provide comfort for himself. 

“Christ, Minho, I can’t even talk to someone on the phone without your fucking screaming! It’s driving me crazy!” Her voice gets louder and louder as she continues, and it’s causing Minho to bow his head even lower. “You always want something! You’re such a selfish little bitch of a child, you know that? Why can’t you just play by yourself like a normal kid, huh?”

There are fat tears rolling down his chubby cheeks now; it doesn’t matter how much he tries to wipe them away because they just keep flowing. He hiccups and almost chokes on his breath in his effort to keep silent, but it’s impossible when there are sobs ripping from his throat, too.

“What? You can’t take a little bit of truth?” Mama sneers, scoffing at him as she shakes her head. “You’re already nine years old, Minho, you need to learn to toughen up. Boys aren’t supposed to cry.”

Minho finds himself on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. He doesn’t remember falling down or curling up. Everything feels fuzzy and like he’s far away, Mama’s words bouncing around his skull.

He seals his lips shut, swallowing the hiccups and ignoring the pain that shoots through his chest every time he does. He frantically scrubs at his cheeks, too desperate to make the tears disappear to feel the pain of rubbing at his sore eyes. His face is blotchy and red, but Mama said that boys don’t cry, so why is he crying? Why can’t he stop? He needs to stop.

“Such a fucking disappointment,” she says under her breath, but it’s loud enough for Minho to hear. The tears flow even more. She shakes her head again and grabs her phone as she walks away, leaving him curled up on the kitchen floor alone.

_ Boys don’t cry, boys don’t cry, boy— _

  
  


***

  
  


Minho shoots up, suddenly awake. He winces belatedly as his sore muscles and joints protest at the movement. He hears several things crack thousands of times and is only mildly concerned.

He looks around, blinking away sleep and the awful memory he’d much rather forget. The yelling still touches the crevices of his mind, and it becomes so loud for a moment that he has to squeeze his eyes shut and shake his head for it to dissipate again. He’s a bit shaky, but he always is after nightmares like those.

Once he’s able to focus on his current surroundings, he realizes he must’ve fallen asleep on the island countertop earlier after talking to Jisung.

He feels himself brighten just at the thought of the cute boy. He remembers how his round cheeks would seem to blow up with food, making him look like a little chipmunk. His big hoodie had seemed to swallow him whole, making him look that much smaller and softer. Minho still thinks Jisung’s hair would be even softer than that, though.

“Oh, hey, hyung.” Changbin’s voice calls him back from his Jisung Reminiscing Hours. “Did your mom drop off more food again?”

He must have just come back from the studio. He’s wearing a face mask and rumpled black clothes. There are dark circles under his eyes, but then again, there always are.

Minho looks over at Changbin, blinking in confusion before he remembers the baking spree he did last night. He had managed to bake the Honey Cheesecake, four batches of the Lavender Cupcakes, and so many batches of macarons he can’t even be bothered to count them all.

“Uh, yeah,” Minho says with a tight-lipped smile, hoping he seems convincing. “Crazy, right?”

“Holy shit, yeah,” Changbin agrees with an incredulous laugh as he looks over all the sweets. “I can’t believe she made all that for you. I wish I had a mom like that.”

_ Me, too, _Minho thinks bitterly, but he just gives his roommate a grin and a chuckle. He’s surprised Changbin hasn’t caught on yet considering they've been rooming together for over a year. Despite how dishonest it is, Minho wants to keep it that way.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Minho suddenly says, standing up from the stool he’d been sleeping on. His limbs ache from the long-term discomfort, but he pays them no mind. “There are some pistachio macarons that I- uh, she said you could have. She knows they’re your favorite, so she made a lot.”

“Oh my god, really? You’re joking,” Changbin accuses, shocked. He walks over to the countertop island to see the macarons, and he almost shits himself when he sees containers full of macarons. “Holy shit! Hyung, your mom is the _ best _! I fucking love her macarons!”

Minho has to bite his tongue in order not to out himself, but it’s hard when Changbin is complimenting his mother like that.

“Yeah, they’re really good,” he says with an awkward laugh. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling so unbelievably uncomfortable. God, why’d he have to make up such a lie all those months ago?

It was a spur of the moment kind of thing—Minho had just baked three cheesecakes in one night, and he knew Changbin would ask questions he wouldn’t like the answers to. So when the younger had inevitably asked why there were three cheesecakes in their room when there weren’t any the day before, Minho had blurted that his mother was a baker and would send him sweets sometimes. That was just a few weeks after being roommates, and two semesters later, they’re still rooming together.

“Hey, tell your mom I said thanks,” Changin says through a mouthful of food, and it kind of reminds Minho of Jisung. Except Changbin isn’t nearly as cute.

“Will do,” Minho lies, struggling to keep his smile. When he sees Changbin grab his keys from the counter, he asks, “Oh, is it already time for your nine a.m lecture?”

“Yeah,” Changbin says with a nod as he grabs his backpack. “Did you not know? How long have you been out here?”

“Oh, maybe like an hour or so,” Minho lies again, scratching the back of his neck and diverting his eyes. “I guess I was just really deep in thought.”

Changbin doesn’t look convinced, but he accepts the excuse without complaint. He checks his pockets for his phone and gives Minho a quick goodbye before he’s out the door. It’s silent again after the door clicks shut, and Minho doesn’t like it.

Silence leaves space for something more. Something that isn’t physically there, but instead inside his brain. Things like complex what-if’s and quiet anxieties that are made loud with no outside distraction to override them.

Silence makes the quiet thoughts in Minho’s head loud, booming—a bongo that sounds too much like his heartbeat, thrumming in time and ricocheting around his skull like Mother’s words: _ disappointment, selfish, bitch, stupid— _

His phone dings, interrupting the bongos and cutting the tension in his bones in half, anticipating, cautious. In a desperate attempt to keep the booming thoughts silent, Minho reaches for his phone on the countertop.

_ From: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ hyungggggg~~ _

_ are u awake????? _

_ i feel like i am Death now （´＿｀;） _

_ fear me grrrrr _

_ wait can i redact that ヽ(ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ _

Despite himself, Minho finds himself smiling softly at the screen. Of course it’s Jisung. And of _ course _ he uses those emojis.

_ To: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ u cant delete messages lmao _

_ From: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ aw shit .. _

_ can u just idk _

_ pretend u didnt see them pls?? (ﾟAﾟ;) _

_ To: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ idk .. _

_ that growl was p scary _

_ From: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ fUCK OFF HYUNG !! (`A´) _

_ and to think i woulda come over tonight,,,,, tragic _

Minho’s thumbs pause over the keyboard, eyes scanning Jisung’s message. A smile tugs at his lips as he thinks about Jisung again; his eyes would light up every time something seemed to interest him despite the dark circles and the dullness of them. It was like a spark was ignited inside, bringing back the warmth he’d lost. Minho wants him to have bright eyes like that all the time.

_ To: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ nooo :(( _

_ pls cme i will make yummy things _

Minho knows Jisung had been kidding about not coming tonight, but there’s a bit of anxiety in his gut that takes advantage of his uncertainty. He bites his lip as he waits for Jisung’s response, his leg bouncing uneasily.

He sighs to himself, groaning as he drags his hands over his face and ruffles his hair. It’s an anxious day, he supposes, because he usually doesn’t worry this much over a single text. Or maybe he does. He’s not sure. But the anxiety swirling in his gut is more prominent now, at least, and it’s putting him on edge.

He jumps when his phone vibrates.

_ From: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ fiiiineee,,,,, _

_ ill be there at like uhhhh 2am ?? (＾＾；) _

Minho unknowingly beams at his phone. It might be a little silly, but it’s his natural reaction to smile when Jisung is involved.

_ To: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ sure!!! i will see u then babEY ;)))) _

_ From: Cutie Sungie ♡ _

_ sjdnsjsk ok (〃´∀｀) _

_ Oh my god, he’s so fucking cute, _Minho thinks, disbelieving as he rereads the text a million times over. He can’t help but love the effect he has on Jisung—the boy’s blush had been evident even in the dim lighting, and it’s so endearing how easily the brunet gets flustered.

Minho has always been a bit flirty, and he likes to think it comes with his extravagant personality. It usually isn’t meant to be taken seriously since it’s just how he is: not serious. He likes to act carefree because he can escape his worries for a moment and pretend they’re not there.

Sometimes it feels like it traps him in a box, though—like it has the opposite effect. A reputation of being carefree and dramatic gives his words no weight. He could say he wants to die and mean it, and no one would bat an eye. They’d think, ah, that’s just Minho being Minho, and would move on. And that- well, that hurts. Just a bit.

It feels like no one cares about him then. He’s felt like no one has _ ever _ cared about him. Changbin is the only exception, maybe, because he’s always able to see through Minho’s façade. Changbin gives him gentle looks, subtle pats on the back, quiet _ are you okay _’s, and although he’s almost never at the dorm anymore, it’s more love than Minho’s ever had.

He laughs deprecatingly into his hands, his head low. How fucking pathetic is that? To treasure a few soft touches when he knows he has friends like Sungjun and Hyunjin? Maybe Mother was right when she called him selfish.

His breath stops at the thought.

No, no, no, his mother is a bitch; she’s never right. Yes, everything she says isn’t true. All she does is lie. Right, yes.

Right?

At this point, he feels like he’s just trying to convince himself.

He has a headache now. Whether it be because of his nightmare or the onslaught of thoughts, he doesn’t know. He feels a certain kind of tired that sleep doesn’t wash away so easily, too.

Heaving a sigh, he clicks his phone on absentmindedly. It’s only nine-fifteen and yet he already wants the day to be over. He doesn’t have his drawing class until ten, either, so he has nothing to do. Wallowing in self-pity is never fun, though, so he decides to get his ass up and over to the cafè.

He throws on a green hoodie that’s two sizes too big, swallowing him whole and covering his hands completely. It hangs off his frame and makes him feel safer—just the way he likes it on days like these.

After forcing his legs through some jeans, he pockets his phone and tugs on his beloved checkered Vans. He grabs his backpack on the way out, the door automatically locking behind him.

The cafè, aptly named Cup of Nature for its woodsy design and plentiful plants, is only a ten minute walk from JYPU. It’s largely overpriced considering the convenient location, but it’s cozy and Hyunjin usually tries to give Minho a discount.

Hyunjin has been working there since Minho first enrolled. The boy has said that it’s because his aunt co-founded the cafè, so he works there to appease his family. He’s said he doesn’t mind it too much since he gets to see people’s reactions to his lattè art.

He’s talented in almost every area possible: swimming, basketball, rapping, singing, art, the list goes on. But what he loves most is dancing, so he chose to major in it. He doesn’t talk much about it, but Minho always catches the light in his eyes and how his lips quirk up just the smallest bit whenever he mentions it.

Minho remembers the time when he was like that, too, but that didn’t last long. With Mother around his entire childhood, most good things tended to be ripped away from him.

The bell at the entrance of the cafè chimes at his arrival. It smells of coffee beans and slight vanilla—maybe even some soil.

“Minnie hyung!” Hyunjin cheers, eyes turning into crescents when he sees Minho. “You’re here!”

“Of course I am!” Minho says with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I couldn’t miss seeing my favorite dongsaeng now could I?”

Hyunjin giggles before turning his attention back to the next customer in line. The girl obviously looks flustered; her blush is visible despite the face mask she dons. It’s just Hyunjin’s charm, Minho supposes.

It takes a minute before it’s Minho’s turn to order. All he does is give a lopsided smile and Hyunjin is quick to type in the request.

“Same as always, hyung? Iced Americano?”

“Yes, especially since you weren’t here yesterday to give me how I like it,” he says, his nose scrunching in disgust as he remembers the taste of the ratchet ass Americano he had been given. “That one girl made it wrong.”

“Oh, Kyungmi noona? Yeah, she’s new,” Hyunjin replies with a chuckle. “But she’s pretty and tries her best, so she was hired. I couldn’t help her yesterday since I was helping my roommate prepare for an upcoming debate, so she was probably overwhelmed without me to guide her.”

“Wait, debate?” Minho asks, surprised at the news. Hyunjin, though talented, is not one for public speaking. “That’s why you weren’t here?”

“Yeah,” the brunet says with a shy smile. “My roommate—Seungmin—he’s in the debate club and apparently there was a really big debate yesterday, so he asked me to help him practice right before he had to leave. He doesn’t usually ask for help, so of course I stayed.”

Seungmin. . .Kim Seungmin? With the big glasses? It can’t be. Minho shakes it off as soon as the thought comes.

“Ugh, you’re too much,” he groans, rolling his eyes playfully. “Picking your roommate over me, huh? I see how it is.”

He says it to keep up his playful attitude because it’s how he usually is with Hyunjin. They’re friends only inside Cup of Nature—Minho is a regular and Hyunjin is the barista, so a friendship naturally formed after one too many of Minho’s witty quips. Their friendship has never continued outside of the cafè, though, for one reason or another.

It could be because of Minho’s crippling trust issues. Or maybe just because their schedules never line up. It’s a guessing game, really, and Minho takes it with a grain of salt.

He tries his best to maintain the same attitude around Hyunjin to keep the boy’s curiosity sated. He tends to ask questions that Minho doesn’t want to answer—what he majors in, what his mother is like, if he has any pets—and though the questions are harmless in themselves, they make Minho feel uneasy.

No one really, truly knows much about him. Sometimes it’s scary, and sometimes it's comforting.

Right now, though? It’s suffocating as shit.

“You know it’s not like that, hyung,” Hyunjin says with a frown. Minho must not have played it off as much as thought, then. “Are you okay?”

Oh. That’s new.

The question is one he hasn’t heard in quite a while—excluding all the joking ones, of course. Only Changbin has really asked him seriously if he was alright, but his schedule has been busy and they don’t see each other as much as they used to.

In short, Minho is caught off-guard. Very much so. His brain stops for a moment, and he must look crazy with how he just stares at Hyunjin, surprised after joking only seconds prior.

“I- uh,” he stutters, and can’t seem to connect words in a distinguishable way. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he finally mutters, rubbing the back of his neck as he directs his eyes to the ground. He feels like curling into himself. “I’m gonna go grab a table.”

He quickly scrambles away, not once chancing looking back. Hyunjin’s concern was apparent already, he’s sure his mess of word vomit would only deepen his furrowed brow, and Minho doesn’t want to see that.

It doesn’t help that he usually talks with Hyunjin while his coffee is made. It’s pretty obvious that something is wrong. Minho just hopes Hyunjin will brush it off.

His wishes are for naught when Hyunjin sits down at his table with his Americano.

“Jinnie-yah? What are you doing? You have work,” Minho asks, his eyebrows raising. He doesn’t reach for the coffee.

“I’m on break,” Hyunjin explains shortly, shrugging. There’s worry in his sharp eyes and he’s looking at Minho closely. He squirms. “But what’s up with you today, hyung? You’re acting different.”

“It’s really fine, just some anxiety,” Minho says without thinking. He presses his lips together when he realizes he’s admitted to not only not feeling great, but also to the fact he has anxiety. Shit.

“Anxiety? Do you have a test or exam or something?” Hyunjin asks, even more worried now, which is the exact opposite of what Minho wanted.

“No, no, I just-” _ wish I could go one day without my past fucking bugging the shit out of me. _“I don’t know. No reason.”

“Hyung, come on,” Hyunjin presses, unconvinced. “I know something’s up. You can talk to me.”

If only it was that simple. But the twisting in Minho’s gut and the lasting trails of words from his nightmare prevent any words from slipping past his lips. It’s like there’s tape sealing his mouth shut, silencing his pleas for help.

It’s dramatic, but so is he.

“I’m okay,” he reassures, trying to look Hyunjin in the eyes but failing. He feels shaky again. His fingers fidget before drumming against his thigh.

Hyunjin stares at him a little longer, analyzing, before leaning back in the chair with a defeated sigh.

“Something’s obviously bothering you,” he starts, and Minho tenses, “and you need to talk about it. Maybe not to me, but _ somebody _. I know I only have one working brain cell, but it’s working hard to knock some sense into you right now.”

That forces a surprised laugh from Minho, lips tilting slightly into a not-quite-a-smile smile.

“I should’ve known your serious streak wouldn't last for long,” he says amusedly.

“Well, I figured no one else has been serious to you about this yet, and unfortunately it had to be me,” Hyunjin replies, smiling a bit, but it’s still a little worried. “I am your friend, hyung. You know that, right?”

Minho reaches for the coffee, his grip tightening around the cup when he hears Hyunjin’s words. He’s not used to having friends, though. He’s used to keeping things to himself. Mother has always taught him to solve his own problems, after all.

“Of course, Jinnie-yah,” he says, but even to him it sounds strained. “It’s just. . .” he bites his lip, his eyes downcast, watching the coffee swirl with the ice in his cup, “. . .hard. There are things I haven’t talked about before to anybody.”

“You have Changbinnie hyung, though, don’t you?” Hyunjin frowns, clearly not understanding how private of a person Minho really is.

“I do,” Minho agrees, but the smile on his face has turned bitter. He turns the cup idly, trying to ignore the heaviness of his heart. “I do, but some things even he doesn’t know. Shouldn’t know.”

The last part he says accidentally, but he feels too heavy to really care anymore. Hyunjin has brought all this up, telling him he obviously has shit he needs to take care of, and that he needs someone to listen to him. But Minho doesn’t even know what he’d say, or who he’d even say it to.

“It’s not like you murdered someone, hyung,” Hyunjin scoffs, before suddenly pausing, his eyes wide. “Right?”

“No, no, of course I didn’t, dumbass,” Minho snorts, rolling his eyes and taking his hand off of the drink.

“Then you can talk to someone about it!” the barista insists, crossing his arms and leaning back. “How about this: you finally tell me your major, and I let you take the Americano for free.”

Minho hesitates, thinking. Now that Mother is no longer sending him money, he has to rely on his job at the corner store. He usually only has three shifts a week. The Americano costs twelve-thousand won. He breathes in deeply and exhales, pursing his lips. His major is usually not what people expect of him, though, and it warrants questions he doesn’t want to answer. But the coffee. . .

“I’m an art therapy major,” he says simply, like his heart isn’t about to beat out of his chest.

“Oh.” Hyunjin’s brow furrows as he mulls over Minho’s answer. “_ Oh _. Like- like art, but for therapy and stuff?”

“Yeah.” Minho’s only shaking a little, thank god.

“So you plan on being like, a therapist then, hyung? What kind of therapist?”

Oh, fucking hell. Hyunjin’s lucky he’s pretty.

“Like. . .you know, a therapist for mental health patients,” Minho says reluctantly, and he’s shaking more now because this is more than he’s ever elaborated on his major for. Changbin had just accepted it and moved on. His fingers are trembling, and he tries to hide his hands under the table.

It’s stupid. This whole fucking thing is stupid. His reaction to his own major shouldn’t cause him to panic. He shouldn’t even be scared to share it. Sure, his mother had called him a failure a million and one times when she found out, and yeah, she called him a disappointment, too, but that’s all stuff she’s done before. He’s used to it. He is! He is.

His shaking says otherwise, though, and he can still hear her in the back of his mind.

“Hey, hyung, are you alright? You’re shaking,” Hyunjin says softly, like he’s talking to a wounded animal, and Minho hates it.

Hyunjin is younger than him; Minho should be the one comforting Hyunjin. Hyunjin is the one who’s entering college for the first time, the one shouldering his family’s expectations, the one who always has such a busy schedule. Minho is just Minho—the weird second year who acts overdramatic and doesn’t take anything seriously.

And yet Hyunjin is comforting Minho right now. It’s wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

Hyunjin is saying something to him, but he can’t hear it over the loud thoughts shouting over themselves. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on his finger tapping on the inside of his palm. He counts 1-2-3, 1-2-3 until his thoughts are quieter and he can open his eyes again.

Everything is off, though, and he can’t quite tell why. The soft music playing from the cafè speakers is the same, but maybe it’s just a bit louder. The air he’s breathing is just a little colder. He blinks but it doesn’t feel like he’s the one doing it. He feels void, empty, and like he’s watching his brain control his body. It’s him, but at the same time it’s not.

“Hyung? Hey, are you alive?” Hyunjin asks, making an attempt at being lighthearted, but it falls flat when his concern is more apparent. His voice sounds a little fuzzy and far away.

“Yeah, sorry.” Minho forces his lips to move. He doesn’t have the energy to smile, though. He doesn’t have the energy to do much of anything.

“Oh, well, welcome back to planet Earth,” the brunet says with a grin, obviously taking note of the older’s exhaustion. “I have to get back to work soon, but you have a class in a few minutes, right?”

Minho blinks, still trying to feel at home in his own body. He feels so weirdly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, a drawing class,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with a fist in hopes of his vision becoming clearer. It’s just the slightest bit blurry around the edges. He’s not sure if he should be worried or not. He’s dissociated before, but never quite this much.

“Oh! So you have to like drawing then!” Hyunjin perks up, his eyes brightening for the first time since Minho walked in. “Are you any good at it? I bet you are!”

Although the change of subject is sudden, Minho is grateful that Hyunjin had caught onto his discomfort and chose not to press further. He can be a nosy little bitch, but he knows when he’s crossing the line—most of the time, at least.

“I hope I’m good at it,” Minho says with a small smile. His vision is slowly beginning to clear again. “I was accepted into JYPU, after all. And you know how hard it is to get in.”

“Hyung, why haven’t you shown me any of your art then?” Hyunjin whines petulantly, and ah, there’s the Hwang Hyunjin Minho knows and admittedly loves. “I want to see it!”

By now, he’s almost entirely back in his body. Some of his breaths still feel off, and there’s a pulse in the back of his head that he isn’t too fond of, but it’s better than feeling like he’s worlds away.

Minho bites his lip, setting his chin atop his hand as he rests his elbow on the table. He’s considered bringing his sketchbooks to the cafè, but he rarely has time to go to Cup of Nature for the hell of it anymore. And there’s also the fact no one has ever seen his art before. Well, except for his mother, but she had reacted badly so it really discouraged him from ever showing it to anyone again. He was only twelve at the time, so his art probably really was that bad, but he was also extremely impressionable. He almost quit altogether.

He’s glad he didn’t, though, because he wouldn’t have enrolled into JYPU and met Changbin, Sungjun, or Hyunjin. Jisung, too, now that he thinks about it.

“No one has really asked to see it, so I didn’t think you’d want to,” he chooses to say, and it’s not a lie. Changbin has voiced his curiosity about Minho’s art, but Minho has never actually shown him anything he’s drawn.

“Well, I do! So you need to bring some stuff tomorrow so I can fuel your ego,” Hyunjin declares playfully, and it’s such an improvement from his furrowed brow just minutes ago.

“We’ll see,” Minho says cryptically, smiling a bit. He feels so tired, but Hyunjin is good company. Minho will have to go through his portfolio and bring back something he’s actually proud of. His professor has ridiculously high standards, but so does he, so the class is pretty easy for him.

He and Hyunjin continue talking for a few more minutes before the barista nervously admits he wasn’t actually on break—Jaehyun was just covering for him since he saw how worried Hyunjin was. Hyunjin is almost always smiling or whining, after all. It’s why Minho has tried to be careful not to give him a cause for concern. It makes him feel even worse when he realizes that Hyunjin’s coworker saw how distraught he was.

“Seriously, hyung, don’t feel bad about it,” Hyunjin fusses, frowning again before he leaves. Minho’s heart twists painfully. “You’re, like, the most selfless person ever. You can afford to share your problems with someone.”

_ Selfless _? Minho thinks to himself, brow furrowing. It’s a direct contradiction to what Mother has always called him. Consciously he knows she’s just an egotistical asshole, but to hear himself be called the exact opposite of selfish is a little reeling.

Hyunjin has already gone back to the front of the cafè when Minho looks up. The brunet is chatting with a customer, smiling at her kindly as she waves her hands for emphasis as she orders.

He’s always been nice and considerate. Honest, too, except for playful little digs and banter. He’d never lie to Minho. At least, he doesn’t think so. He hopes not.

He presses his lips together as he stares at his watered-down Americano, thinking. Talking to somebody, huh? He’s never been good at that. But then again, it might just be the person. And right now, Minho’s thinking of hazelnut hair and chocolate eyes and a heart-shaped smile.

  
  
  


** _You don’t have to be a prodigy to be unique._ **

** _You don’t have to know what to say or what to think._ **

** _You don’t have to be anybody you can never be._ **

  
  
  


“Why is there a cat mug in our kitchen?” Felix asks suddenly, peeking his head into Jisung’s room.

Jisung looks up from his phone, confused. They don’t have cat mugs. They barely have any _ mugs _. When did—? Oh. Right. Minho.

He almost says that their neighbor gave it to him, but then Felix will get a bit too curious, and Jisung doesn’t want to answer questions about how he met Minho. The Aussie knows Jisung has insomnia, but he doesn’t really know the extent of it. He has too soft of a heart to contain his sadness for Jisung, and though Jisung knows he means well, it comes off the tiniest bit condescending, and he hates it.

“Oh, my friend gave it to me yesterday,” he says, waving his hand before turning his attention back to his phone. He adds the third full Twice album to his insomnia playlist.

“Your friend?” Felix questions, still looking horribly puzzled.

“Yeah.” Jisung nods, but doesn’t take his eyes off of his screen. “Some guy in my music theory class. I don’t think you know him. He’s older than us.”

“Some guy in your music theory class gave you a cat mug,” Felix summarizes, looking at Jisung like he’s grown three heads.

“Listen, I thought it was weird, too,” Jisung says with a shrug, and he does think the whole encounter with Minho was pretty strange, so he’s not exactly lying. “But what was I gonna do? Decline his offer of a free mug? I don’t think so.”

Felix stares at him a little longer before he shrugs, too, and mumbles “fair enough” under his breath in English as he walks away.

Jisung finally looks away from his phone when he’s sure Felix is gone. He stares at where the blonde had left and frowns. He feels bad about lying—especially to Felix, who he considers his best friend. But Minho. . .there’s something about him that Jisung just can’t explain.

He tried to write about him earlier. All he could get out was messy scrawl of _ honey-laced smiles _ and _ star-filled eyes _ and _ laughter like lavender _ and honestly, none of it made sense even to him. The only salvageable line he has is _ warmth of home yet I’ve never seen you before _and even that’s debatable. He’s usually able to spill his emotions onto paper with relative ease, but Minho is an exception.

He huffs as he adds a few of Chungha’s songs to his playlist, and is about to search through Sunmi’s albums, too, until he hears Felix yelling at him from the living room.

“Jisung! It’s twelve o’clock! Your music history class is in fifteen minutes!”

He groans into his pillow, pouting because goddammit, he just wants to make his insomnia playlist. He gets up anyway, already thinking of more songs to add as he tugs on a pair of yellow Converse. He’s always liked yellow. He hums to himself idly, remembering Mom’s liking towards it, too. And thus, his father’s disliking.

The thoughts are too much for him right now—especially since he’s about to go to class. But he does think his nails would look good painted yellow. He might ask Felix about that when he gets back.

“See you later, Lix,” Jisung calls as he shoulders his bag and slips through the door. He hears Felix’s muffled goodbye as the door closes behind him.

Fortunately, his dorm is only a couple of minutes away from the music department. He could’ve taken longer and maybe fixed his hair more, but really, who’s he trying to impress? There are well over eighty students in his class; he’s sure no one will notice how much of a mess his hair is. He’s stuffing it under the hood of his jacket anyway.

He looks up at the sky as he walks. It’s an overcast day and he can’t see the sun anywhere through the grey clouds. There’s a bit of a breeze, too, and it ruffles his hair even more. He frowns, but it’s because he knows it’s about to storm and he doesn’t have an umbrella with him. Storms also make him really anxious. He just hopes it’ll pass by the time his class is over.

When he enters the classroom, there’s only a handful of other students. Truthfully, JYPU’s acceptance rate is less than five percent, so most of Jisung’s classes aren’t too crowded. But a lot of students major in something music related—the college specializes in the arts, after all—and music history is a required class for every music major. He’s surprised so few students are present, even if he did arrive ten minutes early.

_ Pussies are probably afraid of the rain _ , he muses to himself mischievously. He ignores how he’s very much a pussy himself when it comes to rain. _ I just don’t like loud noises _, he defends himself to literally no one. He feels like an idiot. A justified idiot, though.

He pulls out his notebook since he can’t afford a laptop or MacBook like all the rich pricks at his college. They don’t act too rude, but he sees their judgmental eyes when the sound of his pencil seems to be too different from the sound of pressing keys. He’s sure it’d be way worse if he was in high school still. He prefers to shove those memories to the back of his mind. It could be worse. Definitely.

He tells himself that when he sees the handful of students side-eyeing him. They quietly move farther away even though he isn’t even close to them. He scoffs under his breath. Just because he doesn’t have a hefty bank account doesn’t mean he’s contagious for fuck’s sake.

Back when Mom was alive, she’d tut and shake her head when Jisung would come crying to her about how his classmates were top tier assholes. She’d always tell him, “Being raised one way will give you the same ideals as the ones who birthed you, Jisungie,” with a pat on his head. “Getting hurt by their words is like admitting their ideals are true.”

Jisung would always get offended and frustrated then, because how could he not be hurt when a whole ass group of people are telling him the same things? That he’s ugly, dumb, and worthless?

“Hive mind, my dear,” Mom would reassure, like so few words would mend his world. “One big bee claims something, and the smaller ones have no choice but to agree. The same ideals, don’t you see? They probably don’t even realize how wrong it is what they’re doing. Immaturity can do that to you.”

He’d be more confused then. Such an analogy was hard to grasp at first.

“What am I supposed to do then?” he’d asked her, frowning and wiping away tears.

“Remember that they’re wrong,” she’d said simply, smiling at him with those dimples that only appeared when she smiled a certain way. She continued stroking his hair. “You’re my beautiful boy. My bright, creative Jisungie with a heart of gold. No matter what, you’re my son, and I love you. Some words from some boys mean nothing.”

And even though he hadn’t really understood what she meant then, over time he began to realize he shouldn’t place his worth in what others said. He has his insecurities, but she’d always comfort him and whisper softly about how much she loved him, and how he’d get through it, because _ you’re my strong, beautiful son, you know? _

He’s learned a few more things now that she’s gone. More things he never thought he’d have to learn—coping with her absence being one of them.

The sound of conversations shifts his attention away from the arising memories. There are more students coming in now, and he realizes the class starts in only a couple of minutes. He bites his lip uneasily as he looks around, seeing the seats filling up with more and more people. He’s never been good with crowds, and this class is no different. Usually no one sits too close to him, though. 

Right as Professor Im walks through the door in the front of the room, a shorter boy fumbles past a few classmates as he looks for a seat. He eventually chooses to sit next to Jisung, gracelessly plopping into the chair with a huff. The exhale causes his hair to flutter.

Jisung shifts, trying to disguise how uncomfortable he is. It isn’t really personal; he just isn’t used to having seatmates in his classes. Though the boy does seem a bit intimidating, as he’s only wearing black clothes, and his face is obscured by a face mask. His eyes are almost black, too, and he doesn’t seem all that happy.

“Alright. Hello, everybody,” Professor Im starts, smiling at everyone. “I hope you’ve all had a good morning. A good rest, too, because I’m sure most of you won’t like the project we’ll be starting today.”

Jisung is immediately filled with dread. Professor Im is a nice teacher, sure, but his projects can be grueling. He’s pretty particular with his rubrics, too.

The groans that echo around the classroom share Jisung’s feelings. Everyone knows Professor Im is right about not liking what he’s about to say.  
  
“I know, I know, now calm down,” the professor says with an amused laugh. “It should only take you two weeks. Maybe three if things run behind schedule. I’m just going to assign you a musician from history and you have to do a modern rendition of one of their songs with the person next to you. There’s an even number of people here, so everyone should have a partner.”

Jisung freezes, shocked and horrified. Oh, god, oh, fuck. He’s always known he’d have to participate in group projects, but shit, he’d really hoped he wouldn’t have to do any in this class. It’s full of rich pricks who despise his mere poor presence.

He zones out for the rest of what Professor Im says, too preoccupied with the emotional turmoil of having to work together with a complete stranger on a music project. Music’s incredibly important to him, and he’d hate to have his passion crushed by some asshole who thinks they’re more entitled to talent because of money.

“So you’re my partner, huh?” the boy beside him says, looking at him lazily. His eyes are a little intense, but his voice and posture are everything but.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Jisung replies with an awkward smile, playing with his fingers. He’s unable to make eye contact for long, instead staring at his nails. They aren’t too dirty, but they are short. He wonders if Felix would still be up for painting them later.

“Well, partner,” the boy says, “I’m Seo Changbin, second year, lyric composition major. I hope we can finish this project easily.”

Jisung pauses all of his movements, once again shocked and a little horrified. It’s just his luck that Minho’s roommate of all people ended up sitting next to him today. He doesn’t think his heart can withstand so much emotional whiplash in such a short time.

“Oh. I, well, I’m Han Jisung,” he stutters out, giving Changbin a shaky smile. “I’m a first year lyric composition major.”

“Oh! Really?” Changbin says in surprise, his dark eyes suddenly glinting. “You’re the same major as me? Huh. Why haven’t I seen you in any of my other classes?”

“I’m not sure. Could be because I’m a first year.”

Jisung has to pat himself on the back for the fact he hasn’t embarrassed himself yet. Changbin is Minho’s roommate, and if Changbin thinks he’s weird or something he’d definitely tell Minho. Then Minho will think he’s weird and he’d stop talking to him. Probably.

“Ah, that might be it,” Changbin muses with a nod. He looks around for a moment before focusing his eyes back on Jisung. “Why is everyone, like, avoiding you? Are you sick or something?”  
  
Jisung’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. How does Changbin not know? It explains why he’s being so friendly, though. If he knew Jisung was poor, he’d probably avoid him, too. But he’s his hyung, and Jisung is an honorable man, so he has no choice but to tell him the truth and hope he won’t react badly.

“Well, I got in on scholarship,” Jisung says slowly, gaze dropping to lock on his fingers again. “So I’m not exactly rich like everyone else. I dunno, they see it as some kind of disease when really I just don’t have a lot of money.”

“Oh.” Changbin purses his lips, casting another glance at the other students. “That’s dumb,” he grouses, catching Jisung off guard and causing him to bark out a laugh.

“I- yeah, it is,” the brunet giggles, eyes disappearing into crescents. Once he calms down, he says, “It’s a real pain in the ass to have them move away when I sit down too close to them, though. Rich pricks, I call them.”

“Rich pricks?” Changbin repeats with a chuckle, smiling slightly. “That’s oddly fitting.”  
  


Before they can continue talking, Professor Im calls for attention again. He quickly assigns musicians by last name, with Jisung and Changbin getting Epik High. Changbin perks up at the name, and while Jisung has heard of them and even liked a few songs, he doesn’t know as much as Changbin seems to.

“I _ love _Epik High,” the older says with a grin. His eyes almost seem to twinkle with enthusiasm, and Jisung can’t help his amazement at such an unexpected personality from such a dark appearance.

“I like some of their songs,” Jisung comments awkwardly, tapping his fingertips together. “I don’t know much about them, though.”

He honestly feels a bit bad; he really wants to help, but he doesn’t have a lot of knowledge regarding Epik High specifically. He might be able to help with the arrangement of the lyrics, though—that’s his specialty, after all.

“Don’t worry about it, Jisung-ah.” Changbin waves his hand dismissively. “This is a partner project. Both of us have to work on it, so I’m sure your strength will lie somewhere else.”

He doesn’t know why, but Jisung feels warmth bloom in his chest at the words. Not many people have supported his career choice and his strengths, so to hear it come from someone older means a lot. Sure, he doesn’t really know Changbin, but the subtle encouragement is enough for Jisung to already look up to him.

“You’re so smart, hyung! Man, I need to think more optimistically like you.” He beams, cheeks aching a bit at the force of it.

“What? Me? Optimistic? No way,” Changbin stutters, obviously flustered. His eyes widen almost comically. “I write dark shit all the time. I’m, like, the opposite of optimistic.”

“I don’t know, hyung,” Jisung says with a hum. “You probably have a stash of really hopeful songs. Like with compass metaphors or something.”  
  
Changbin gapes at Jisung, alarmed.

“How did you know about Broken Compass?”

“Broken _ what _?”

“Never mind,” Changbin says quickly, exhaling slowly. “Never mind. We need to focus on this project.”  
  
They then get to work assigning each other parts to work on, and giving each other their numbers. Jisung will have to listen to a shit ton of Epik High, but he’s not mad about it. He gets to rearrange the lyrics and even write some new ones to suit his own style, after all, and music has never been a chore for him.

“Hey, do you wanna come to my dorm or your dorm to work on it Monday? My roommate will probably be there, though. He only has, like, two classes that day,” Changbin asks as he slides his laptop into his bag.

Jisung’s heart jumps at the thought of Minho. He suddenly remembers their planned meeting—he’ll have to ask about Changbin tonight.

“Oh, my dorm is fine, hyung,” Jisung says, barely looking at Changbin in favor of picking up the pencil he’d dropped earlier. “My roommate will be there, but he usually minds his business when I’m doing something for school.”

“Is he nosy otherwise?” Changbin questions with a laugh.

“Yes.” Jisung nods seriously, staring at the older. “Very. It’s best not to approach him.”

Felix is sweet; he’s a dance major who also managed to get in on scholarship. He and Jisung got along well from the start. But god, the boy is nosy. He doesn’t really mean to be, Jisung supposes, as it comes from the good of his heart. Jisung just has some things he’d rather keep to himself, and sometimes Felix doesn’t understand that.

“Alright, alright, we’ll see.” Changbin chuckles a bit before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He wishes Jisung goodbye and heads out the door, leaving him with the few students left in the room.

Jisung is about to leave, too, when suddenly there’s a buzzing from his pocket. He thinks it’s Changbin just sending him a reminder text, but he’s pleasantly surprised when he sees the screen.

_ From: Meanho hyung _

jisungie!!!!!!!! im tired!!!!!! :((

i will still make u yummy things tho!!!

He smiles softly, feeling his heart resort to mush. He probably looks so dumb just staring at his phone and smiling, but he couldn’t care less when Minho just texted him of his own volition. He promised yummy things, too! How can he resist a text like that?

_ To: Meanho hyung _

i eagerly await ur scrumptious food hyungie ! (*´∇｀*)

_ From: Meanho hyung _

tbh i did just look up the definition of scrumptios

scumtioes

scrumptius

scrumptioes

whatever

Jisung scoffs to himself as he walks out with his backpack, trying to ignore the smile pulling at his lips. Minho is a dumbass. Like, a big dumbass. But at least he’s pretty.

They continue to send a few more texts back and forth before Jisung unlocks the door to his dorm. The weather had looked the same on the walk back; the skies were still grey, and it was still windy, but the clouds seemed to have thickened and the air felt heavier. It set Jisung on edge, but Minho’s silly texts had managed to distract him from the prospect of a storm.

The dorm is silent, and there’s an empty space in the key rack. Jisung bites the inside of his cheek anxiously, remembering that Felix has a class. Their schedules are always backwards on Wednesdays. It’s fine, and it doesn’t hinder their friendship much, but right now it’s really inconvenient. Felix doesn’t even know about Jisung’s problem with thunderstorms, but usually when they happen, Felix’s company is enough to distract him.

Jisung sets down his things and takes off his shoes first. He’s dealt with storms alone before; he’ll be fine. They’re just sounds and some lights. No big deal.

On cue, there’s a flash of light that causes the room to brighten for less than a second. Jisung cringes, already knowing what happens next. Unsurprisingly, there’s a crash of thunder that follows, but he still jumps. Steady rain falls then, streaking down the windows.

It’s the same every time, and yet he still startles like it’s the first storm he’s ever seen. Lightning, thunder, rain—it’s the same pattern, so why does he feel like hiding every time it happens?

His phone buzzes with new messages, but he’s too busy cowering. He reminds himself to take deep breaths, and to cover the windows like his mom always did. She always knew what to do. He wishes she were here.

His entire body jerks when another boom of thunder sounds, his hip knocking painfully into the island countertop. He hisses, his hand instinctively going to his hip like it’d help the pain.

God, he hates storms.

He’s trembling now, and it’s so obvious because he feels like he’s about to collapse. He just needs to make it to his room where there are no windows. Felix’s room is closer, though.

He stumbles his way through the hall, trying to block out the sound of rain by humming a song to himself. It’s an Epik High song, of course, but he can’t quite remember the name as his brain is too busy going haywire over a stupid fucking storm.

A rather deafening roar of thunder decides to rumble then, scaring Jisung so much he falls to the floor with a yelp. His knees ache from the harsh contact with the wooden floorboards, and his palms burn from where he had tried to catch himself. 

“Fucking storm, I swear to god,” he grumbles to himself, huffing as he forces himself to stand again. He’s still shaking, and he can see his fingers tremble as he pats down his knees. He hates himself for having such a dramatic reaction.

He practically runs to Felix’s room, disregarding how his own room has no windows. That doesn’t matter now—what matters is that he gets under blankets as soon as possible so he can blast some Epik High. He can count it as research for a project as he tries to not have a panic attack. He’s a genius.

As he slips into Felix’s bed, he hears another crash of thunder that causes him to quickly throw himself carelessly into the wall in an attempt to get as far under the blankets as possible. It works, but now his shoulder aches, too. He wants to fucking die.

He hums more to mask the pain now, but it doesn’t really work. He tries to convince himself it does, though, as he unlocks his phone to look through Epik High’s discography.

_ From: Meanho hyung _

i still cant believe my prof is making us do a project in 3 days

like wtf

college is wack

but art professors are even wacker

wacker…….isthat a word

siri define wacker

wait i texted u LMAO howd that happen

Jisung chuckles to himself even through his scrambled brain. He doesn’t have it in him to reply, but he finds himself staring at the messages a little longer than a normal person probably should.

He sighs, exhausted already of his stupid anxiety and the stupid storm, and presses shuffle on Spotify for Epik High. He turns the volume all the way up, and even though it’s making his head hurt, it’s better than the crashes of thunder.

He tries to remember the names of the songs that play, but his brain is too tired to really process any of the words. He just lets the melodies wash over him, the inflections of the voices and the beats managing to distract him from the lashing rain of the thunderstorm. He doesn’t know how long he lays there, but it’s been long enough for an entire album to finish and for another to play.

“Jisung? Jisung, wh- oh.”

Felix’s deep voice is different than Epik High’s, startling Jisung from his weird lax mental state. He scrambles out of bed, still in his jeans, and he suddenly regrets wearing them because he can feel the denim rub against his sore knees.

“Felix! Hey! Sorry for, like, stealing your bed,” he says nervously, trying a smile that looks more like a grimace. He still feels a little shaky.

“Yeah, why were you in my bed, Ji?” Felix asks, his eyebrows knitting in confusion. “Are you feeling okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” Jisung nods multiple times to prove his point. He gestures down his body. “See? I’m not hurt or anything. Not even sick.”

“Why were you in my bed then?”

“Well, I don’t know, really,” Jisung laughs, but it sounds fake even to him. “It was storming, you know, and it’s quieter in your room.”

He knows it’s a bullshit lie. Felix probably does, too. No one was home, so every room was quiet. But Jisung doesn’t have the energy to come up with something better; his bones feel like they’ve been filled with cement, and his head is furiously pulsing because of the loud music.

“Seriously?” Felix frowns, clearly not buying Jisung’s shitty lie. He steps towards the bed to finally shut off the music, letting Jisung know that it has, in fact, not stopped storming, because there’s thunder rumbling and rain still clawing at the windows. His chest tightens once more with anxiety, and he kind of wants to cry.

“Hey, uh, actually could you-”

“What are you really doing here, Ji? You never come to my room unless it’s to see me,” Felix interrupts, squinting at Jisung like he’ll find the problem if he looks hard enough. “Did something happen today? Did one of your classmates try something? You know I’ll defend you, right? You can tell me.”

Jisung barely hears him over the racing of his heart. The rain is too loud now, and the thunder seems to be closer, and he can see the flash of lightning through the window before every crash. His skin seems to prickle uncomfortably, and his chest feels clogged, and his throat feels choked. The ache behind his eyes has strengthened despite the loss of the cause. He squeezes them shut and curls in on himself, trying to make himself smaller as a burst of thunder sounds. His breath isn’t steady anymore, and it makes his chest tighten even more in panic.

“Whoa, hey, Jisung?” Felix asks, alarmed. “Jisung? Ji? Are you okay? What’s the matter? Talk to me.”

“Loud,” the brunet wheezes out, his hands painfully gripping his arms in a feeble attempt to ground himself. “Loud, loud, too loud.”

He doesn’t know why he’s still acting like this. Felix is here, and he’s talking to him, so why is panic still filling his thoughts? Why does it feel like the world is ending when his best friend is _ right there _?

“What? What’s too loud? The thunder?” Felix fidgets uneasily, staring at Jisung helplessly like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. His hands twitch and he tries to reach out a few times, but he stops halfway before fiddling with his fingers again.

A loud boom echoes then, causing Jisung’s breath to hitch and for him to stagger towards Felix, answering the blonde’s question.

Felix pulls Jisung into a hug, gently shushing him as they settle into bed. He lays Jisung’s head in his lap and covers his body with a blanket to try and keep him warm. The boy is obviously too dazed to notice, but he does inch a little closer to Felix.

“Remember to breathe, okay, Ji? I’m right here,” he murmurs, running his hands through Jisung’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll protect you.”

Even through the haze of Jisung’s mind, he hears the sincerity of Felix’s words. He bites his lip to stifle a sob, but he has no control over the tear that falls from his eye. He exhales shakily, almost choking, and tries to breathe.

The fingers in his hair grounds him, pulling him back to earth and into his body. The warmth of Felix’s body and his steady heartbeat reminds him where he is, and the rumbling of thunder doesn’t seem as earth-shattering as before. Felix’s soft reassurances almost drown them out, but even then, the thunder is quiet and far away.

“Thanks,” Jisung mutters, exhausted and embarrassed. His cheeks feel hot, and he doesn’t have the courage to look Felix in the eye.

“You know you can come to me with this kind of stuff,” the dancer says seriously, staring intently at Jisung. “You didn’t have to hide in here and blast music. You could’ve just called me.”

“You were in class,” Jisung argues weakly, pouting. He knows it’s a pretty stupid reason, but it was the reason nonetheless. He never really knows how bad his anxiety will get during a thunderstorm. Sometimes he has panic attacks, and sometimes he doesn’t.

“And I would’ve left class if you told me you needed me,” Felix retorts, looking more pissed now. Jisung shrinks back. “Ji, this isn’t just some stupid little fear. You had a whole panic attack because of it. Don’t you see how serious this is?”  
  
Now Jisung is getting mad. Of _ course _ he knows! He’s not fucking dumb. But what is he supposed to do about it? Cry, complain, throw something? He’s had to deal with this shit ever since he could remember—since his mom was alive. Felix is acting like he knows everything when he very much doesn’t. What a prick.

“Fuck off, Lix,” Jisung says lowly, pushing himself away from Felix to get out of bed. He feels cold for more reasons than one. “You don’t know shit.”

“How can I when you don’t even tell me anything?” Felix shoots back, sitting up to look at Jisung. “You need to talk to me. How can I help when you don’t even talk to me about this shit?”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Jisung hisses, still refusing to look at him. “I know what I’m doing. I would’ve been fine if you hadn’t come in.” Lie. Lie. He feels like he’s drowning.

“Sung, if you would just-”

“I said _ fuck off _!” Jisung shouts, finally looking at Felix to glare at him piercingly. “Don’t you ever fucking call me that shit. I told you not to. I told you to leave me alone. Just fucking listen to me goddammit or I will walk out of this fucking dorm.”

Felix stares at him, wide-eyed. Jisung realizes in the back of his mind that he’s never yelled at Felix before, but he doesn’t have it in him to feel bad because the bitch just called him by the name his mom did and now he feels like he could cry. Again.

“Jisung, look, I’m sorry, but-”

He turns away from Felix to walk out, angry tears building in his eyes even though he doesn’t want them there. He can hear Felix pleading with him from behind him as he puts on his shoes, the yellow now making him feel queasy. He shuts the door behind him without looking back once, and he doesn’t hear the blonde run after him.

Jisung breathes in when he gets outside in the open air. He stares down at the ground as his heartbeat calms. He wipes at his eyes before turning his gaze to the sky: a serene blue with a few puffs of grey clouds. It’s calmer than it was at noon, at least.

He pats down his pockets in an attempt to look for his phone, but finds that he left it inside. He sighs, silently cursing. There’s no way he’s going back in there.

He pauses, weighing his options. He could go to the studios in the music department to work on songs, but he really doesn’t have the brain power to do that. He’s completely spent from his panic attack and little argument with Felix. All he wants to do is sleep but he can’t go inside. He could go to Seungmin’s dorm room, but he doubts that the boy is even there.

That leaves Cup of Nature, the cafè close by. He’s only been there a few times, but it’s a nice place. He can’t really afford to go there often, but he supposes he’s able to sacrifice some money today.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and heads out, releasing another breath. He’s fought with Felix before, but it was over small things and had been resolved quickly. Now, though, Jisung isn’t so sure. Panic attacks are a bit more serious than dirty dishes.

The steady thump of his shoes against the concrete keep him from running away with his thoughts. He bites his lip and shakes his head to rid himself of anymore memories. He doesn’t need to think about this shit right now. He needs to relax with a warm cup of tea.

When he opens the door of the cafe, the aroma of coffee beans and something sweet—vanilla?—immediately greets him. That alone is enough to soften the edge of his emotions, and he’s able to school his expression into something more easygoing as he goes up to the cash register to order.

“Hi, I’m Hyunjin and welcome to Cup of Nature! What can I get you today?” The barista is very pretty, and Jisung probably would’ve choked on his own spit if he hadn’t come here before. The boy has a shiny earring and warm eyes and a gentle smile, and if Jisung wasn’t so tired, he would’ve swooned.

“Hey, could I just get a small peppermint tea?”

“Peppermint tea, sir?” Hyunjin repeats, tapping on the computer screen. He glances at Jisung, pauses with a discernible expression, and presses something else before printing out the order. “That’ll be 2,800 won.”

Jisung pulls out his wallet and passes over a few crumpled notes. Hyunjin takes them without a word.

“Your name, sir? So I can call you when it’s done.”

“Ah, Jisung.”

Hyunjin nods and grabs a cup from the stack to write Jisung’s name. Jisung turns to walk over to an empty table so he can wait. Most of the cafe is pretty empty actually, but he guesses it’s because it’s around two or three in the afternoon.

A few minutes pass until Hyunjin calls his name. He walks back over to the register when he realizes the tea is in a large cup.

“Oh, uh, I ordered a small,” Jisung says awkwardly, switching weight to each foot. He feels bad for calling out Hyunjin’s mistake, but he doesn’t want to be charged more.

“I know,” the barista says with a grin. “I thought I’d get you a large, though. Don’t worry about the price. My aunt’s the co-owner, and this place is pretty empty around this time anyway.”

“Oh.” Jisung has to take a second to process this. He stares blankly at the tea, his brain moving like molasses. “Really? I- are you sure? I don’t want you to get in trouble or anything.”

Hyunjin’s grin softens into a kind smile.

“Really, Jisung-ssi, it’s fine. This tea is way too overpriced anyway. 2,800 for a small? Seriously? It’s like 2,500 for a large over at The Chronosaurus. It’s the least I could do for you,” he reasons, waving his hand dismissively. “Besides, you look like you’ve had a rough day.”

“So it’s because I look like shit, huh?” Jisung asks lightly, smiling a little. He slides the tea on the counter closer to himself.

“If you wanna put it like that, then sure,” Hyunjin says with a laugh.

The cup is warm in his hands, the ceramic smooth against his skin. He always grows more aware of texture after a panic attack. He supposes it’s because he just grows more sensitive in general, though he doesn’t know why.

“So since the both of us are just gonna sit here doing nothing, do you wanna talk about your day at all?” Hyunjin pipes up, interrupting his thoughts. The boy is watching him closely, but his smile makes him look harmless.

“Oh, um,” Jisung stutters, gripping the cup a little tighter, “no, not really,” he says with a shy laugh. “Do you?”

“Sure!” Hyunjin stands up straighter, beaming. “I drew a little turtle in a girl’s latte, and the smile on her face was so big! She said it was the cutest thing she’d ever seen!” His eyes practically sparkle as he relays the story, laughing slightly as he goes. “That’s part of the reason why I’m still working here, actually,” he adds. He hops onto the counter. “People get so happy over the simplest things. Like, it’s really just steamed milk and coffee. Something as ordinary as that can make someone so happy, y’know? If it wasn’t for that, I’d probably hate working here.”

Jisung nods along like he knows what Hyunjin is talking about. He doesn’t really, but the boy seems to shine when he talks about the cafè, so Jisung tries his best to follow along. Everything still feels a little slower than usual, though, so he only processes half the words.

“So yeah, my day was pretty good! Except for when my friend came in and started acting weird,” Hyunjin continues, his mood suddenly darkening. “He looked like something was bothering him, so I tried asking him about it and he got all quiet and stuff. I dunno what his deal is.” He pauses, thinking, before his eyes light up when he makes eye contact with Jisung. “He kinda reminds me of you, actually! Really private, kinda cute.”

“You literally just met me,” Jisung says with a laugh, choosing to ignore the sly compliment. “But you’re right—I am pretty private. And today wasn’t a good day. I guess you were right about that, too.”

“I think you and him would be good friends,” Hyunjin muses thoughtfully, still staring at Jisung. “But I think he could learn to accept when I’m right. You should teach him that,” he adds with a shit-eating grin. “Do you go to JYPU? ‘Cause that’s where he goes. He’s pretty talented from what I can tell. I only just recently found out he’s an artist, though, and I’m still pretty salty about it.” He pouts. “I could’ve seen so much of his art by now!”

“Ah, yeah, I go to JYPU,” Jisung answers after a second too long. He smiles nervously. This Hyunjin guy is getting a little too friendly and he’s not sure how he feels about it. “Not sure if I’d know him, though, if he’s in the art department and I’m in music.”

“Well, his name’s Lee Minho, if that happens to ring a bell,” Hyunjin says anyway, and he says something else but Jisung can’t hear him anymore because _ what the fuck _. He’s already met Changbin today, and now Hyunjin the talkative barista happens to be Minho’s friend, too. There’s only so much interaction he can handle, and today is really pushing those limits.

“Jisung-ssi? Hello? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Hyunjin’s concern manages to bring Jisung out of his thoughts.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” He’s not, but he can still pretend like he is.

“Oh, yeah, you’re exactly like him,” the barista says with a nod. “You really would be good friends.”

Jisung blinks owlishly at him, his brain working a mile a minute to turn heavy gears. He feels a pull in his gut at the information.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, see, there’s this thing about Minho hyung,” Hyunjin starts, shifting to look at Jisung better. “He’s really nice. And funny. And we’ve been friends for almost two years now, I think, but I don’t really know much about him.” He bites his lip idly, considering something. “It was only today I learned about his major. And he seemed super fucking nervous about it. Got all spacey and shit after telling me when he was fidgeting just before. Kinda weird—especially for him. He’s never that nervous.”

“Ah, really?” Jisung mumbles, now staring at his mug of peppermint tea. He can still remember Minho’s little apologetic smile when he’d told Jisung about his lack of tea. It was endearing, if Jisung’s being honest, and even now his heart feels warm. It’s odd; he doesn’t know anything about Minho, either, and yet. . .and yet it feels like he should. Or he could, at the very least, if Minho will let him in.

“Sorry for dumping all that on you, Jisung-ssi,” Hyunjin says with an embarrassed chuckle. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “It’s just frustrating, I guess. Since he doesn’t really tell me anything. I was really just venting. You probably don’t even know him.”

_ Kind of _, Jisung thinks to himself, but gives a small, gentle smile to Hyunjin anyway.

“You can stop with the -ssi,” Jisung says with a soft chuckle that’s just the slightest bit hoarse. His throat is starting to feel scratchy, no doubt from the yelling earlier. “I’m only a first year.”

“Oh! Really? Me, too!” Hyunjin practically glows at the news, the gloom over his expression completely disappearing. “I’m a dance major at JYPU.”

“Oh, seriously?” Jisung’s eyes widen in surprise. He backtracks, though, in fear of offending Hyunjin. “I mean- nice! I’m just surprised since. . .I don’t know, I just didn’t expect it,” he says with a nervous laugh.

“It’s okay, Jisungie,” Hyunjin assures him with a grin. “No one usually does. But I like the element of surprise, so it’s fine.”

Jisung wants to reply, but before he can, the bell at the door chimes. A woman and man walk in, talking quietly. Hyunjin jumps off the countertop and just gives Jisung a sheepish smile. Taking it as his cue to leave, Jisung takes his tea and settles at a booth in the back of the cafe by a couple peace lilies.

He almost reaches for his phone, but remembers he doesn’t have it. He sighs to himself, but accepts his little safe haven for now. The plants are nice anyway, and the lilies don’t particularly smell, which his sensitive nose is thankful for.

The couple he saw enter pick a table closer to Hyunjin. They continue to talk, but they’re too far away for Jisung to hear. Their expressions are serious, and the man’s brow is furrowing while the woman’s face grows pinched.

Jisung directs his attention to the swirling liquid in his cup instead. He feels guilty for snooping even though he didn’t mean to, and didn’t even do anything. He taps the side of the cup to satiate his jittering.

“What the fuck did you just say?” the woman suddenly shouts, startling Jisung so badly he almost knocks over his mug. “You can’t just say that shit, Shinyoung.”

The man, clearly panicked at her outburst, tries to calm her by saying something Jisung can’t catch.

“No, shut up, shut up,” she hisses, shooting up from her seat when he reaches for her arm. “There’s no way you- no. No, no, no.”

“Listen, please, if you could just-”  
  
“No! No! When were you gonna tell me? Huh? That you have a kid?”

Oh, fuck. That’s not good. Like, _ really _ not good.

“Ah. . .I’m sorry, ma’am,” Hyunjin says softly, awkwardly walking up to them and turning his attention to the woman who’s in near-hysterics. “Do you want tea? Or something? It’ll be free.”

She says something, but it’s either too quiet or too garbled because Jisung can’t hear it. Hyunjin must’ve understood it, though, because he just nods and leaves them alone. The woman heaves a breath and walks out the door without looking back at the man.

Jisung looks away from the scene, uncomfortable. He feels like he’d witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He hears some clattering in the back kitchen before there’s some low conversation between Hyunjin and the man.

Eventually, the door chimes again and closes. When Jisung looks up from the table, he sees that the man has left. Hyunjin is quiet behind the counter.

Jisung doesn’t say anything, either. He stares at his mug, now half full and cold. He sighs through his nose.

“Sorry about that,” Hyunjin says after a few minutes drag on too long. “They’re regulars. Just got engaged last week, and this happened.” He gives a fake laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood. Or to make himself feel better. Jisung can’t tell.

“Oh,” Jisung says lamely, “that sucks.” It’s all he can say, he supposes.

“Yeah, it really does,” Hyunjin agrees with a sad smile, still wiping a cup that has probably already been cleaned. “I guess some relationships just end up like that, though. Lack of communication and all that.”

Jisung’s heart turns cold at the words. He looks away and to his tea. He hears conversation in his ears from the past, loud and angry. There’s yelling, cursing, crying—he’s not sure if it’s because of lack of communication, or just too much of it. A misunderstanding, maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe just anger.

_ “Why are you even doing this? Huh? When you’re about to die anyway?” _ he hears, booming even though it’s been years since he’s heard it. He wishes he never did.

_ “And what? Should I sit in my bed till my due date comes? Should I lay around and let death take me? Christ, Jinho, I didn’t know you took me as dead already.” _

Jisung’s breath shakes as he exhales. He stoops low in his chair as he lays his head on the table and closes his eyes. Strange how quiet it can get after such a loud storm hardly an hour prior. He doesn’t know which is worse.

“Are you tired?” Hyunjin asks softly. Jisung barely hears him.

“Yeah, actually.”

“Then sleep.”

It’s so simple when Hyunjin says it like that. Like it’s something as easy as breathing. Jisung guesses that it’s supposed to be, and that most people probably do sleep that easily. But he can’t relate to those people even though he wishes he could. Sleep is just not his friend, and really, it hasn’t been since his mom died.

But then Hyunjin turns on some music, and it must be a lo-fi hip-hop playlist or something because it’s able to at least relax Jisung’s muscles. The quiet isn’t as pressing anymore.

It takes a bit, but eventually, Jisung feels himself nodding off. The smell of coffee beans and the sound of steady rapping and chill beats are enough to ease his mind to rest, and he welcomes the pleasant blackness of unconsciousness.

  
  


***

  
  


“-ie? Jisungie?”

Jisung groans, curling in on himself to hide away from the voice. He barely gets enough sleep as it is, can’t Felix leave him alone for a few more minutes?

“Jisung, you need to get up. My dad’s gonna be stopping by soon, and he can’t see a customer sleeping in a booth. It’s not really work policy, you know.”

Begrudgingly, he opens his eyes. He winces when a stripe of sunlight cuts through the windows and blinds him, warm and orange against the darkening sky. His joints ache, and there’s a terrible crick in his neck from sleeping in such a position, but at least the constant pull at his eyelids has been sated.

He rubs his eyes as his brain works to remember where he is. He stops mid-motion when he realizes the sun is setting.

“Wait, shit, what time is it?” He pats down his pockets before remembering he doesn’t have his phone. He’s already shooting up from his seat, though, panicked and a bit disoriented.

“Oh, um, it’s almost seven o’clock. You slept for a long time, but I didn’t want to wake you,” Hyunjin explains with an apologetic smile. “You just looked really tired.”

Jisung’s heart lurches. He appreciates the gesture, but he does have homework to do. He’s lucky he doesn’t have work today. Though, Felix is probably still at the dorm, and he doesn’t have it in him to confront the blonde just yet. He’s never been one for confrontation in the first place.

“Oh, fuck, I can’t- ugh, Jesus,” he mumbles under his breath, barely taking Hyunjin’s presence into account as he curses aloud. He ruffles his hair and huffs, indecisive but considering his options. He doesn’t have much to choose from, though. “Felix is gonna hate me, gonna hate me,” he whispers, eyes dancing frantically over each of his fingers as he picks at them. He’s starting to shake again.

“Jisung? Hey, it’s fine,” Hyunjin says gently, trying to pull away one of Jisung’s hands. All it does is make the brunet flinch and Jisung kind of hates himself for it.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” he mimics, trying to convince himself of the words. “I’m sorry, Hyunjin, I need to go. Thank you for the tea and everything.” He hurries to the door and walks out, not hearing Hyunjin’s response.

The walk to the dorm is barely ten minutes, but it feels simultaneously too long and too fast. His brain is alive, whirring and spitting and hissing, a strange amalgamation of thoughts that he can’t even hope to comprehend. All he knows is that he really can’t talk to Felix right now.

His heart drops when he hears shuffling as soon as he opens the door to his dorm.

“Jisung! Oh, my god, there you are!” Felix comes barreling towards him, blonde hair disheveled and face red. He looks a wreck and somewhere deep inside, Jisung wants to apologize for yelling at him. But instead, he avoids Felix entirely as he slips off his shoes.

“I’m really, really sorry, Ji! I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just scared because I’ve never seen you have a panic attack before, and I wanted to help you but I didn’t know how, and all I ended up doing was pushing you away. I’m so sorry,” Felix rambles, words choked and breathy.

_ It’s okay. I understand. You were just trying to help. I’m sorry for yelling at you. Please, let’s go back to the way things were before. _

“Fuck off, Lix,” Jisung ends up saying, and he swears a spear goes through his heart when he sees Felix flinch and divert his eyes to the floor. He wants to reach out, to apologize and hug Felix, but there’s something stopping him. He doesn’t know what it is.

“Look, I- I know you’re angry with me,” Felix chokes out, just on the edge of sobbing. He breathes in slowly. “But. . .please, I just- here.” He thrusts his hand out towards Jisung. Startled, Jisung jumps a bit before realizing his phone is in Felix’s hand. “Someone’s been texting you. And I haven’t been reading the texts or anything. But- but I accidentally saw one, and. . .”

“You _ what _?” Jisung shouts, grabbing his phone from Felix.

_ From: Meanho hyung _

how we feelinh about uhhhh more peppermint tea

i cant get anything else lmao

for rn at least

ok so it’s been a couple hours n u still havent replies

are u ok sungie

are u having an anxious day too

oof i cant delete messages i forgot rip

well ,,, maybe we can help each other ?

maybe

ahhhh sjbdds what am i doing

whatever

see u at 2

“Did you go see him? Earlier when you left?” Felix’s voice is quiet and weak, but there. “I. . .I thought you’d tell me something like this. We’re best friends, right?”  
  


“Best friends don’t go through each other’s phones,” Jisung says coldly, and he bitterly thinks that the dread that fills his veins matches the tone. There’s so much he could say, wishes he could, but the only words that make it past his lips are cold and frostbitten.

“I didn’t!” Felix exclaims, eyes wide. “I swear I didn’t! I just saw a notification pop up! C’mon, Ji, you know I would never do that.”

_ I know, I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, Felix, forget everything I’m saying. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. _

“You- I just. . .” Jisung stutters over his words, fighting the snare in his throat that would undoubtedly bite at Felix. He knows he’s hurting the blonde, and he hates it so fucking much. He hates himself so fucking much. “Give me time, okay?”

That seems to catch Felix off guard. He pauses, opens his mouth once, and closes it again. He nods and mumbles another apology before disappearing into his room.

Jisung stares at where he left. There’s a knot in his chest that winds between his ribs and around his organs, piercing and suffocating. Every time he breathes, he feels it pressing into his lungs.

Without thinking, he unlocks his phone to type out a text.

_ To: Meanho hyung _

hey can i come over early

like now

He presses send before he can regret it. Barely thirty seconds later, his phone vibrates with a reply.

_ From: Meanho hyung _

?? are u ok ,,

but yeah sure

bin just left for studios

Jisung pockets his phone and turns back to the door, tired. It doesn’t even help that he slept for five hours. This exhaustion is set in his bones, long and feathery, reaching into his very being and draining him of all energy entirely. He didn’t want to fight with Felix. He didn’t want to hurt him. But he ended up doing both of those things anyway.

He knocks on Minho’s door and waits. Another second later, it opens and Jisung gives a small smile as greeting, words not reaching him.

The boy is wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair unstyled and eyes dark. He looks worse for wear, too, but still so beautiful. His lips quirk up into a small smile when he sees Jisung.

“Hey, Sungie,” he says quietly, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

Jisung just mumbles a barely comprehensible “thanks” and steps into the dorm. It’s the same as it was early in the morning, but it feels so different in the evening. The world doesn’t feel as quiet.

He doesn’t look at Minho before he collapses on the little couch by the tiny TV implemented in the wall. The cushions are just a bit too lenient with his weight, and he finds himself dipping impossibly lower into the couch. He can’t say he minds it, though.

Minho is a calm presence behind the kitchen countertop. He doesn’t ask Jisung what’s wrong or press for answers, which he’s silently thankful for. The sounds of baking—dishes clanking against one another, the water faucet releasing water, the microwave and oven beeping periodically—manage to mollify him, quieting his thoughts despite the quiet of the room itself.

“I got in a fight with my roommate,” Jisung suddenly says, not entirely of his own conscious will, “so I couldn’t text you. Sorry, hyung.”

The movements in the kitchen stop, like Minho is considering what he said. Jisung fidgets slightly even though they aren’t looking at each other.

“That’s alright,” the older replies, continuing to work in the kitchen. “I guess we both had bad days then, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jisung agrees. He glances at his phone and remembers Minho’s text. _ Are you having an anxious day, too? _ “I- my anxiety was also pretty awful today. I dunno, I-I guess the. . .the weather triggered it.” He knows it did, but he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It’s just weather, after all.

“Oh, well that sucks,” Minho says bluntly, and it reminds Jisung of Changbin. “Like, that really sucks. Anxiety is never fun.” He stops talking then, and Jisung thinks the conversation is over, but he hasn’t heard Minho shuffle over to another place in the kitchen, or heard him work on another step of whatever he’s making. “Yeah, I- um- I had a nightmare, so. . .” His words trail off, like he’s not sure how to word it. “So I had a pretty, um, pretty bad day.” He laughs, but it’s empty and a little sad, but it’s all he can seem to do.

Jisung turns around, but still stays seated on the couch. Minho’s staring at a bowl of something brown, his gaze dark and sightless. He’s frozen, deep in thought, and it scares Jisung just how serious he looks. It doesn’t fit him. Not at all.

“Did you have a panic attack, too, then?” Jisung asks lightly, smiling sadly. From what he’d heard Hyunjin say earlier, it seems Minho had suffered some kind of attack—panic or anxiety.

“Not quite,” Minho says, looking up. His voice lilts to match Jisung’s tone, the same expression on his face. A mutual understanding. “More of an anxiety attack, I guess. Dissociation and all that.”

“Well, that sucks. Like, really sucks,” Jisung mimics, smile morphing into a teasing smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s a start.

“It does,” Minho says with a nod, obviously not able to come up with a witty comeback just yet. But he’s back to moving around the kitchen again, at least. “Hey, why don’t you come over here? That couch will swallow you whole soon, I’m sure of it. You’re so tiny, it’ll be easy.”

Jisung scoffs indignantly, but gets up anyway. It takes a few tries before he has stable footing on the ground.

“What’s on the menu, chef Minho hyung?” he asks as he perches on one of the stools.

“Well, I have this main dessert that will remain a secret until it’s done, my dear Sungie,” Minho plays along, winking at Jisung and causing the boy’s cheeks to flame up. Jisung hates how easily flustered he gets around him; he doesn’t get how he does it. “I’m also making macarons again because I still have some stuff left for strawberry ones. Do you wanna help decorate some?”

Jisung’s eyes shine as he nods excitedly, setting his elbows on the countertop and leaning on them. He watches Minho intently. He’s never decorated macarons before, but he’s helped his mom in the past with cupcakes and cookies for the holidays.

Minho, after whisking together some kind of thick light pink batter, walks over to the countertop and sets the bowl down. He looks through the bottom cupboards before pulling out piping bags. Jisung watches him in confusion as he slides a metal tray with parchment paper onto the counter.

“Why are you looking at me like that? We’re making macarons,” Minho says, raising an eyebrow before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

Jisung doesn’t say anything. He feels his heart flutter at the mention of ‘we’ and he’s not sure why. Minho’s the one doing the real work.

The older boy spills out the bowl into each of the two piping bags. He hums to himself, completely focused and relaxed as he positions the piping bag over the tray and squeezes out enough batter to create a circle. He does three more before Jisung becomes more curious.

“Can I try, hyung?”

“With- with the baking?” Minho asks, surprised. He’s wide-eyed, completely gobsmacked, like it’s the last thing he expected. Jisung doesn’t understand why he’s so caught off-guard. Certainly he’s had people ask to help before?

Judging from Minho’s sincere shock, Jisung deduces that maybe no one has.

“Yeah! I’ve never baked before. Only cooked simple meals and stuff,” Jisung says with a grin. He tries not to think about how he’s had to learn to cook because his dad didn’t feed him after Mom died.

“I mean. . .sure. Just make sure not to make it too thick.” Minho hands the piping bag to Jisung.

The brunet is too excited to really hear Minho’s advice. The bag is a bit heavy, but he carefully settles it between both hands so he can do what Minho did. He ends up squeezing a little too hard, though, and in an attempt to make an even circle, he makes it so thick that it’s starting to look more like a ball.

“Oh my god, what’d I _ just _ say, Sung?” Minho says with a laugh, erupting into giggles every time he sees the mess of a macaron on the tray. Jisung tries to glare, but the sophomore’s giggles are infectious and he ends up laughing, too.

“I tried, okay?” Jisung pouts, huffing and crossing his arms, the piping bag abandoned on the countertop.

“Yes, you did,” Minho agrees with a smile so fond that Jisung’s stomach flips. “You failed terribly, but you did try. I think you should let me do the rest, though.” At Jisung’s big, sad eyes, he adds, “Don’t give me that look. You can still help with decorating them.”

Although Jisung still wants to help, he acquiesces with a sigh and settles on his stool. He expects Minho to get rid of his atrocious macaron—if he can call it that—but all he does is move past it to add more circles. He taps the tray a few times, slamming it on the countertop and startling Jisung, and the bubbles in the batter pop. Minho looks them over for a moment before nodding to himself and mumbling something Jisung can’t hear.

“Now we wait,” he declares, moving away from the tray of macarons. He shrugs when Jisung shoots him a confused look. “Half of baking is waiting. Get used to it, Sungie.”

Jisung just grumbles in response unhappily; he’s never been one for patience.

“What do we do then? While we wait?” he asks as Minho taps something on his phone.

“Uh, hm, I don’t know,” Minho says and slips his phone into his pocket. He slips into the seat next to Jisung. “What do you wanna do? Why don’t you tell me about your day? Besides all the anxious parts, of course.”

“Okay, well, actually!” Jisung suddenly exclaims, realizing he hasn’t told Minho about Changbin or Hyunjin. Minho flinches slightly at the shout, but otherwise smiles amusedly. Jisung’s momentarily distracted because for once the older doesn’t cover his smile, and it’s just the slightest bit crooked but every bit adorable. “I met Changbin hyung today. And Hyunjin.”

Minho’s smile disappears, his face dropping. He looks surprised, and a little of something else that Jisung can’t put his finger on.

“Changbinnie hyung became my partner in music history. I’m glad, though, because everyone else in that class is a dick,” Jisung says, and his face scrunches up when he mentions his classmates.

“Oh, really? Why? I’ll defend your honor, Sungie, trust me.” Minho looks at him kindly but with a smirk. Jisung’s not even sure how he can pull off such an odd look.

“Ah, well, you see, hyung,” he starts hesitantly, breaking eye contact. He quickly makes it again, though, because it’s Minho. Lee Minho. Who he already trusts, somehow, and he’s not sure how or why. They’ve only known each other for barely two days, and yet. . .well, whatever. Jisung can overthink that another time when no one’s around. “I’m here on scholarship. So they think I’m poor when in reality, they’re just super rich.”

“Oh, that’s it?” Minho frowns. “Yeah, rich people are assholes. The whole lot of them. They think they’re entitled to everything because of their money. Everything is because of their money. Money is power to them, I guess, and it’s fucking stupid. All they care about is money. They’d never give a shit about their family or their son if they could help it. Money is always on their mind because they want to stay powerful forever, which is just impossible if you ask me. Money is temporary. Family isn’t. Or maybe it is, now that I think about it.” He pauses his rant, deep in thought and not even aware he was rambling.

“Hyung? You okay?” Jisung asks gently, trying to catch Minho’s eye.

“What? Oh, yeah,” he says with a laugh that sounds just a tiny bit bitter. “Just- just reminded me of my mom. That’s all. She’s an asshole.” He doesn’t seem to realize he said it aloud until Jisung looks at him with an open mouth and wide eyes. Minho mimics the expression. “Oh, my god, um- well- uh, it’s just- forget you heard that. Please?”

“What? Why?”

“Because, like, no one knows,” he explains with a nervous smile. Everything about him screams anxiety: his fidgeting fingers, tapping foot, stuttering—Jisung can tell this is a touchy subject. “Kinda, y’know, on the down-low. Not really something you want everyone knowing.”

“Oh, I see, okay,” Jisung says with a nod. It’s no wonder Minho went on such a rant about rich people. Sure, Jisung’s met some pretty shitty people who were rich, but Minho seemed to get upset just at the mention of them. “Well, your secret’s safe with me, hyung.”

“Of course it is,” Minho says with a grin, expression changing quickly to a smirk. “I’m your hyung. You have to do what I say.”  
  
“No fair, hyung,” Jisung retorts childishly, pouting. “Now I can’t tell you about all the embarrassing stories Changbinnie hyung and Hyunjin told me about you.”

“Wait, what? You said you knew me?”  
  
“No,” he says with a shy smile. He rubs the back of his neck. “Hyunjin just mentioned some things about you without knowing. And Changbin hyung didn’t say anything about you. I lied, really.”

“You suck, Sung,” Minho huffs out, and turns in his seat to look at Jisung better. “What did Hyunjinnie say about me anyway?”

“Oh, well, um,” Jisung stutters in his attempt to find words, “he said you and I are very similar. Which. . .fair, I guess,” he says with a small laugh. “And he told me that you’re an art major. So that’s cool! I’m surprised you aren’t, like, a culinary student or something.”

“He said I was an art major? Just art?”

“Yeah,” Jisung says with a nod, but it comes out as more of a question. He looks at Minho curiously. “What else would it be, hyung?”

“Just, well, it’s not just art,” Minho answers slowly, like he’s carefully choosing his words, but is still unsure of himself. “It’s art therapy. I guess he didn’t really understand the last part,” he adds with an amused twitch of his lips.

“Oh! Really? That’s awesome!” Jisung cheers, leaning towards Minho with bright eyes. “Like, that’s super cool, hyung! It fits you for some reason.”

“You think so?” Minho asks shyly, diverting his eyes as his cheeks color. Jisung realizes how close they are now, but he can’t find it in himself to back away, because pink has never looked so good on somebody before. “My mom thinks differently. She always thinks differently, though.”

“I’ll fight her,” Jisung declares, staring at Minho seriously. “Give me her number. We’ll go behind Cup of Nature and have Hyunjin cover for us so I can 1v1 your mom.”

Minho bursts out laughing, but he covers his smile, so Jisung’s heart only flutters a few hundred times instead of the usual hundred thousand. “As much as I would love to see that, you can’t,” he says with a soft smile. “She’s rich and famous and it’s also illegal.”

“Famous? Really? What’d she get famous for? A fucking vegan book or something?” When Minho just stares at him, Jisung’s eyes widen and he wheezes before properly laughing his ass off. “No way! No fucking way, hyung! You can’t tell me your mom actually wrote a vegan book!”

“I don’t know what to tell you then,” Minho says between his own giggles. He watches Jisung laugh, and the warmth in his eyes is so apparent that Jisung stops laughing so he doesn’t start choking like he did last time.

“Sorry, you just look really cute when you laugh,” Minho says with a fake-deep voice and a smirk, completely ruining the moment. When all Jisung does is huff and turn away with bright red cheeks, he snickers.

“Awful. You’re awful, hyung. Completely dreadful.”

“Dreadful? You sound like my old principal.”

“Whatever, okay? I know I sound old,” Jisung says petulantly, getting up from the stool, “but I’m still younger than you.”

“I was wondering when the old jokes would start,” Minho sighs. He looks at Jisung as he walks over to the couch again. “What are you planning on doing now? Suffocating in that couch?”

“No, I was gonna work on making my insomnia playlist. Do you wanna come help? We can listen to it whenever we meet up.”

Minho, obviously interested, gets up and plops down on the couch. They end up leaning into each other because of how deep the sofa is, and Jisung blushes madly as he tries to pull away, but Minho wraps an arm around him and sets his chin on the younger’s shoulder so he can see Jisung’s phone screen.

_ Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Oh, my god. Oh. My god? Holy shit. Is- is this real? Am I alive? Is a pretty boy really hugging me like this? Practically cuddling? Oh, my god. Fucking Lee Minho no less. The prettiest boy alive. I’m dead. I’m actually dead. _

Jisung’s internal gay panic comes to an abrupt halt when he sees the texts on his lock screen.

_ From: Lixie ! _

sung im sorry

i know you dont like being called sungie

i shouldnt have done that

i shouldnt have yelled at you

i shouldve given you space

youre right i really dont know anything

please can you come home

or talk to me

tell me youre safe

please

Jisung’s suddenly so cold. Minho’s right next to him, touching him, but it feels like he’s been dumped in cold water. Anxiety crawls up his spine, a painfully familiar friend he’s come to live with, and it sends shivers down his entire body. He can’t talk to Felix right now. He can’t do it without being a dick again. He’d rather leave him out to dry than hurt him again.

“Sungie?” Minho asks quietly, watching Jisung closely. “Let’s calm down, okay? It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Just send him one little text. Just to show you got his texts. He’s just worried about you.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Jisung murmurs, his voice strained. “Hyung, I said some really bad things to him. He should hate me. I don’t think I can- I don’t think I can face him right now.”

“That’s okay, Sung, you don’t have to,” Minho says just as quietly, and Jisung almost thinks Minho pulls him even closer. “Just. . .hey, how about I send it, hm? Just a little ‘ok’ or something? Is that alright with you?”

Jisung considers it carefully. He’s afraid Felix will send him more texts if he does that, but if he doesn’t, then the boy might think he’s in trouble. He’s already hurt Felix enough, the least he can do is acknowledge him.

He nods to Minho, and the sophomore gently takes his phone after Jisung types in the passcode. It only takes a few taps, and the phone is turned off again, face down on the other side of the couch. Jisung breathes, and it feels like a breath of fresh air.

“Now what about that playlist, Sungie?” Minho asks, setting his chin on Jisung’s shoulder again. Jisung feels just a bit warmer now. “If it doesn’t have Baby Shark then I’m gonna be mad.” Never mind.

Jisung grabs his phone and goes through the playlist. It’s largely TWICE and female soloists, but Minho doesn’t seem to mind. He points out songs he likes and suggests others to add. They’re in the middle of picking out American songs when the oven beeps.

“Oh, shit, I forgot about that!” Minho curses, shooting up from the couch—and falling back down, but he gets back up quickly—to tend to the oven. Jisung laughs at him as he goes.

“Oh, my god, how could we forget La Vie en Rose? Hyung, you’ve failed me,” Jisung says, adding the song to the playlist. He pauses when he smells chocolate, whipping around to see Minho taking out a cake from the oven. “Holy shit! Hyung! You’re the best!”

“Am I? You just said I failed you like two seconds ago,” the sophomore scoffs, setting down the cake on a display stand. Jisung scurries over to watch as he takes out a container of hazelnuts from one of the cabinets. Minho picks some out and sets them on the edge of the cake to make a ring of hazelnuts.

“It looks so fucking good, hyung, fuck!” Jisung exclaims, banging his fists on the table to show his enthusiasm. Minho laughs at him, covering his mouth again.

“Eat up, Sungie. Just save some for Changbinnie.”

“Changbin hyung doesn’t need to eat. Fuck him,” Jisung says, stabbing a fork directly into the cake. Minho winces. “Oh, sorry, was I supposed to cut it out like you did before?”

“It’s okay. I’ll do it,” Minho assures with an amused laugh. He takes a knife from one of the drawers and cuts out the slice like he’d done the first time Jisung had come and places it on a plate. It still amazes him how measured Minho’s movements are. He’d probably make a really good dancer.

Jisung takes the plate when Minho’s done. He already knows it’s going to be incredible, but actually tasting it takes him to a whole other realm. The chocolate sponge is rich and still warm, and the crunch of the hazelnut makes an excellent combination. Jisung honestly feels like he’s in heaven.

“So what do you think?” Minho asks, watching Jisung closely. “It’s a new recipe.”  
  


“I think that it’s fucking awesome and the most amazing thing to bless this goddamn earth, hyung,” Jisung says after a moment of chewing. “I don’t know how you do it. You need to open a bakery or something.”

“I don’t think so,” Minho replies, chuckling. “I really wanna be an art therapist. And I want to save baking for just me and my friends, y’know?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Jisung nods thoughtfully, leaning his head on his hand. “That kinda thing is special to you.”

They fall into a comfortable silence after that. Jisung decides to play their insomnia playlist, and the first thing that comes on is TWICE’s Dance the Night Away. Jisung grins at Minho, who stares at him in confusion when he gets up.

“You know what this means, hyung,” Jisung says, and it’s all the warning Minho gets.

As soon as the chorus starts, Jisung dances along, the choreography practically ingrained in his mind. By the time the second half of the chorus plays, Minho has joined him. They’re giggling like middle school girls and are horrible at the timing, but there are stars in Minho’s eyes and the taste of chocolate on Jisung’s tongue, and there’s no place he’d rather be than here.

** _That's alright, let it out, talk to me._ **   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> NOTE FOR PROMPTER: Ah, prompter. . .I hope I did your prompt justice. I tried to go easy with the angst, but it might still come off as heavy. Know it could be much worse, at least. There are some things you wanted that I just couldn't fit into these two chapters. They'll be in future chapters, I assure you! I just ran out of time. I didn't want to rush Minho and Jisung's relationship, is all. I'm sorry if I didn't meet your expectations TT .. I worked hard all the same, and I hope you enjoyed what I have right now. xx


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